Chapter 3

When there isn’t a priest to hand, some attempt to exorcise grief by the intake of alcohol. For some, alcohol exorcises many demons, even when grief isn’t one of them.

Edmund wasn’t like that. He had never drunk to forget, though, in his youth, he may well have imbibed so much he had forgotten – but that would have been the few hours previous, not whatever had been bothering him. He wasn’t often worried by much, being of the mind that life does pretty much what it wants, anyway. People are spectators, and free will might well be an illusion.

He really did fancy a pint, though.

He pushed open the door to the Black Swann and stepped inside. He’d been to country pubs times before, and had noticed there were two typical receptions. On the one hand, demonstrated to his visit to an establishment called The Spotted Cow part way through an extended drive, when he wanted to relieve both his hunger and bladder, it could feel as if everyone instantly turned around to stare at you when you enter. On the other, there were those, evidenced by many more (so thankfully indicating the majority), where no one was concerned about a fresh gate crasher. They had their own lives to lead and cared nothing for strangers – in the way of being otherwise engaged, rather than antagonistic. He hoped for the latter, but was prepared for the former. His room was booked, and anyone who didn’t like it, or him, could go suck butt cheeks.

The interior was a contrast to outside. It immediately felt welcoming. He could hear the crackle of a real fire, and detected the warm earthiness of burning wood. The lighting was subdued, without being dark, relaxing him before the door was fully closed. His eyes took a moment to adjust, and he allowed them that before moving further in. Wall sconces that looked older than the cracked plaster they clung to lit his way, enhancing the feeling of being welcomed. As he reached the bar, something savoury from a kitchen he couldn’t see overlayed the fire’s aroma. His stomach grumbled.

A man stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with the sort of commitment usually reserved for crime scenes. He looked up as Edmund approached, eyes sharp beneath shaggy grey eyebrows in need of a trim.

“You’ll be the chap from the car,” the landlord said. “You lost?”

Edmund forced a smile.

“Not lost. Not yet, anyway.”

It was a lie, of course. Otherwise, why would he be hoping to find himself?

A few heads turned at that, as if only just noticing his existence. Not many – three, maybe four – but the movement was quick, like he’d said something far more interesting than he had. Or something he shouldn’t have.

“I’ve got a room booked,” Edmund said, tapping the bar with his fingernail. “Edmund Wright.”

The landlord didn’t check a register. He didn’t need to.

“Aye. Up the stairs, first door on your left. Paid for the week, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“You want to extend, you tell me.” The man gave the glass one final, unnecessarily forceful buff before reaching up to place it on a shelf. “Folk tend to change their minds, one way or another. Never can tell.”

Edmund frowned. It seemed an odd thing to say. In his experience, people stayed for the amount of time they’d planned. There were other priorities, such as work. Few people had the luxury of making things up as they went along. The only time he’d prolonged a stay was when his flight had been cancelled after the airline went into liquidation. It meant an extra week in… Cyprus, wasn’t it? Otherwise, the period was the period.

He supposed there could be a little leeway in this case.

“Right,” he said, shrugging. “I might.”

“Yes, you might.” The landlord nodded, as if it was significant.

He reached under the bar and brought out a wooden key fob shaped like a swan with its neck bent too far to be comfortable. The number one was carved into its side.

“Here you go. Food’s served till eight-thirty. Drinks till whenever they don’t cause trouble.”

A chuckle from a nearby table. Edmund glanced over. Two men were sitting opposite each other, dominoes arranged between, though neither appeared to be playing. They were both openly watching him, now.

“New face,” one said. It wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but nor was it particularly cheerful, either.

“Passing through,” Edmund answered, not wishing to elaborate.

“That so?” The man arched a brow, which gave him a slightly manic look. “Not many pass through here. We’re not on the way to anything, lest you’re lost.”

“Yeah, then all roads can lead here!” the other man added, his head bobbing as if he was back on the road into the village.

The landlord cleared his throat, a sharp sound that made both men turn back to their game.

Edmund took the hint and the key.

As he climbed the stairs, each step creaked with a voice of its own – one complaining, one yawning itself awake, one merely acknowledging his weight – the building having its own opinions about his arrival, and eager to express them. At the top, he found the door to his room, unlocked it and pushed it open with his shoulder. He was surprised at how quickly the mood had changed from his first entrance, slipping from positive to decidedly negative within a few moments. Hopefully, the remainder of his stay would be more sociable, or less disquieting.

The room was basic in the way all pub rooms were basic. Unambitious. A bed with simply decorated linen. A small dresser beneath a spotted mirror, on which sat a kettle that looked older than him, and a slack handful of the requisite sachets. Curtains patterned with flowers that didn’t exist in nature and didn’t match the linen. But it was serviceable. Clean and warm. Most importantly, it was quiet.

He set his bag on the bed but didn’t open it. He was used to living out of suitcases when he travelled, not seeing the point in hanging items in fusty wardrobes when they’d only be returned after a short time. Why pretend he lived there? Instead, he crossed to the window and eased a curtain aside.

The forest that stood at the end of the other road filled the entire horizon.

Even with minimal wind, the treetops seemed to waver. A ripple ran across them like breath through a sleeping body. Edmund looked away quickly, his heart giving a small but noticeable kick. He rubbed his chest, still feeling the aftereffects. He hadn’t had a palpitation in a decade. They didn’t want to start again now.

He let the curtain fall shut.

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “You can wait.”

He couldn’t be sure why he’d said that. Had the forest been calling to him? Come visit! He hadn’t known it was there, so had certainly not planned on entering its expanse. When he had his evening mapped out, why would he need to almost apologise for not answering a call that wasn’t there?

He sighed. Tiredness could mess with one’s head. Given the reception from the patrons downstairs, he was tempted to simply go straight to sleep. As there was still daylight, however, he knew he would find that difficult. His mind would be too active, as if the light fed it with mental stimulus only darkness could satiate.

He tried a shower. Tried reading. Tried nothing at all. In the end, he settled for lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, letting exhaustion drag him under while his mind still flailed for the surface.

Sleep came, but in uneasy fragments, his brain throwing them at him for the audacity of attempting sleep so early.

Dreams. The subconscious’ way of speaking to us when it doesn’t have a voice.

Trees bent towards him, their branches clawing at the air. Leaves whispered his name, knowing the breeze would carry it along to any who might listen. A path shifted beneath his feet, moving him along even as he tried to remain still.

He woke twice, disoriented, his breath shallow and eyes prickling as if he’d been crying. The second time, he sat up and rubbed at his throbbing temples.

Pain was his friend, he reminded himself. But even friends should knock, not enter uninvited.

He wasn’t sure he’d slept at all when he finally accepted defeat. He dressed and returned downstairs.

The landlord was wiping the same spot on the same glass, going by the gap on the shelf, with the same vigour.

“Sleep all right?” the man asked without looking up.

“Fine,” Edmund lied.

“Fine.” The landlord nodded as if that, too, meant something it shouldn’t. “Strangers sometimes… struggle, first few nights.”

“With the bed?”

“With the village.” A pause. “Folk get turned around in themselves. Lose themselves. Wander off.”

Edmund stiffened. Had that happened to the boy?

“Wander off?”

“Hmm.” The man’s eyes flicked up to his, then back down. “Best keep to the main roads, if you’re heading out tomorrow. And if you hear something in the trees… assume it’s nothing. Likely is, anyways.”

The two men from earlier were listening again. Their dominoes lay untouched on the table.

Edmund swallowed.

“I’m not planning on wandering anywhere.”

“No one ever is,” the landlord said softly.

The room seemed to tighten, the walls leaning in to hear his reply. Edmund didn’t give one. He nodded, said he needed air, and stepped outside.

The night greeted him coldly. A thin mist was threading its way along the street, curling around the cottages and brushing against his ankles like a translucent cat wanting attention. As he looked around, he thought he saw the forest move again – just the ripple, nothing more.

He didn’t look at it directly. It wanted him to, and he wasn’t ready. Instead, he turned back towards the pub door, intending to call it a night properly, sleep be damned, when he heard it.

A faint rustle from the direction of the trees.

He told himself it was the wind. Of course it was. What else would it be? Forests and wind had played together forever, after all. They were old friends, and this was their long gestating romantic interlude.

Still, he waited. Listening.

Nothing followed.

Edmund shook himself, muttered something impolite at the night air, and retreated back inside.

If the forest had shivered, which it hadn’t, it could damn well do so without him.