Chapter 8

Perception is the thief of truth.

Edmund’s perception of his room was that of an oppressive space insisting he be outside. Don’t stay here. Visit the forest. The truth, however, was that it was really his only safe space. There were no people. No ‘different’ children. No trees.

Only his thoughts, which were claustrophobic enough.

After his encounter with Tom, he returned to the room, thankfully encountering no one else along the way. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the steam coming from his freshly made coffee. One he would drink, this time, he told himself.

The steam lessened. The coffee’s temperature dropped. The volume stayed the same as the cup remained nothing more than a point of focus. He lost himself in the black liquid, his mind swimming in the depths of its own accord. Like his feet, he let it wander.

A wandering mind, however, is wont to trespass. It crosses electrified fences designed to keep it out, and unwanted memories in. It strides over mental minefields without caution, allowing itself to be rocked by the ensuing explosive recollections. Edmund’s took the freedom it was given, knowing it would be short lived, and sprinted, gleefully confident it would leave destruction in its wake.

He let his tears flow. There was no real way to stop them, as he knew to his cost. He had managed to stifle them previously, but they always won in the end.

This was meant to be a break. A relaxing time. One where he could ignore his grief and pretend he was healing.

He sniffed and coughed. Shake it off. Shake it out. Being morose only bred morosity. He could languish or he could live. Relive or relax. Alliterate or…

Whatever. Blink. Shake the shoulders. Ruffle the hair (then smooth it back down). Swig the coffee and wince – he never liked cold drinks that were meant to be hot. It wasn’t right.

Edmund told himself he only needed air. That was all. Fresh air. Real air. That’s why he was there, so he should ignore all the weird shit and let it refresh him. He’d been sitting in his room too long. A walk would clear his mind, and he’d ensure he spoke to no one. There were enough turnings to take if he saw anyone that might wish to greet him. Avoidance was key.

It was just after midday when he stepped back outside. The sun had peaked, disappointed its glory had been largely ignored, and so begun its slow decent back to the horizon. It still cast enough warmth to allow his t-shirt to be sufficient, for which he was grateful. His plan to elude interaction was successful enough for him to feel unpressured, though the anticipation of interruptions lingered. A few locals crossed the square, each offering the briefest nod as he passed, but they were quick, obligatory acknowledgments, rather than greetings. He didn’t mind, in fact, he was thankful. Politeness without expectation was easier to navigate than feigned interest, on either side.

His chosen direction was random, following a quiet road that veered away from both the centre and the looming forest. The cottages became more spaced out, their gardens tidier, though tidier than tidy was a cautious distinction. The residents there had more time or fewer worries, so were able to concentrate on the things that pleased them instead of pleasing others. Roses hung from trellises, confident in their prettiness. Lawns were neatly trimmed, comfortable in their unconsciously regimented uniformity. A tabby cat lounged on a windowsill and blinked at him, utterly indifferent.

For several minutes, nothing happened. There were no whispers of dread. No subtle wavers in the air. Edmund was just a man walking alone, trying to convince himself he still knew how to breathe normally.

His steps grew steadier, his footfalls relaxed. His thoughts began to loosen as the ropes binding them slackened. He let out a slow exhale…

Then froze.

The road ahead had curved without his noticing. The trees, which should have been behind him (or, at least, away) were closer now. Much closer.

He frowned and looked back. The village was still visible, though further away than he expected. When had he become separated from it? He must have been walking for longer than he realised. Strange. He felt as if only moments had passed.

Edmund turned back toward the trees. They stood tall and unified, their trunks spaced just evenly enough to give the illusion of order amongst the natural chaos. If they had faces, one eyebrow would have been raised. You thought you could avoid us. You thought we weren’t watching. Oh, we were. Fragments of sunlight pushed their way through the canopy, across the lane to his feet, giving a shadowy, marbled road that Dorothy would have refused, even if it were made of yellow brick.

He hadn’t intended to end up here. He shouldn’t have.

But he had.

A soft breeze brushed his cheek, gentle but insistent, the touch of someone trying to draw his attention.

Not again!

He took a step back, and felt something soft beneath his foot. Grass. He frowned.

“What…?”

He hadn’t stepped onto grass. Or at least, he didn’t think he had. He looked down. The road beneath him had narrowed, sloping into a patch of green that hadn’t been there a moment before, and couldn’t be there now.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his face. He was tired. Overthinking. The village’s stories were worming their way beneath his ribs, and he was letting them eat him from the inside.

Another, warmer, breath of wind drifted past him. This was different. Familiar.

For no reason at all, he relaxed.

The calm eased over him gradually, the way warm bath water rises around limbs, particular when the day’s aches are especially painful. It started in his chest and radiated outward, dissolving tension and softening thought. His heartbeat stabilised. His breaths became long and slow and deliberate.

A sound reached him, as if it had been waiting for his ears to be ready to receive.

A soft rustle. Even. Rhythmic. Almost like… like breathing.

The forest.

He stepped forward. He hadn’t meant to. His foot moved of its own volition, making him a spectator to its decision. The ground beneath him morphed from lane to soil, malleable and cool. Pine needles cushioned his shoe, though no pines were in attendance.

Edmund’s eyes widened at his own actions.

Stop!

“Stop.”

The word came out strained. Forced, as if it wasn’t convinced it was meant.

He tried to step back again, but the calm intensified. His limbs loosened further. His chest warmed. His eyelids grew heavier. They weren’t tired. More peaceful or comfortably numb.

Time blurred, forgetting its place in Existence, content to be set adrift.

A moment ago, he’d been in the village. Now, he had no idea how far he’d walked or how long he’d been standing here. Was it minutes? More? He tried to recall the last clear thought he’d had, but it slipped away like a held breath slowly expelled. He couldn’t remember any real thoughts, if there had ever been any.

A voice cut through the haze, slicing his stupor in two.

“Edmund!”

It snapped like a twig underfoot, abruptly breaking the calm.

Edmund jolted, sucking in a sharp breath, and the world lurched back into focus. The forest was before him. The dirt and needles were beneath his shoes. The oddly bitter taste of stillness was on his tongue.

“Edmund!”

He turned.

A middle-aged man in a worn coat with frayed patches sown to the elbows hurried towards him, visibly sweating from exertion. His expression was tight with something wavering between fear and anger.

“What are you doing?” the man demanded.

Edmund stared at him, dazed. What had he been doing?

“I… I was walking.”

“Walking?” The man looked past him, into the trees, then back at him. “You were halfway over the Threshold.”

Edmund blinked. He noticed the verbal capitalisation of the term.

“The what?”

The man grabbed his arm. The grip wasn’t hard, but it was firm enough to pull him back onto the road. He allowed himself to be guided.

“You can’t go in alone. Not like that.”

Edmund tried to steady his breathing. Where had the serenity withdrawn to?

“I didn’t go in. I was just… I was just here. Just here.”

He didn’t sound convinced or convincing.

The man shook his head.

“No! You crossed the grass. You were inside. Even if it was only a step, it still counts.”

Edmund’s heart hammered.

“I don’t remember stepping in. Or over. Or…”

“That’s how it works.” The man’s voice softened slightly, though worry still edged his words with a sharpened edge. “It draws you without you noticing. You think you’re choosing your steps and in control. You’re really not.”

Edmund exhaled shakily. The calm inside him had vanished, replaced by a tension that wrapped around him like a straitjacket. He recognised this was madness.

“I didn’t mean to.”

He felt as if he was being reprimanded by his mother, a person he hadn’t thought about since just after her death. The memory was an intrusion, and he pushed it away. Even alive, she’d be of no use here.

“No one means to. Not ever.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The forest waited, as it was long accustomed to doing, behind Edmund, its presence unmistakable even without seeing it. Finally, the man released his arm.

“Go back to the village, now. And don’t walk this way alone again.”

Edmund mouth was dry, and he desperately needed to swallow. He felt, if he did, his throat would tear.

“Thank you. I… appreciate it.”

He hadn’t walked that way. He’d deliberately taken a different route. He should have been nowhere near the forest!

The stranger nodded, brisk and reluctant, and turned away. He headed back the way he’d come. Edmund lingered, staring at the trees. They looked motionless. Innocent. Ordinary.

He could still feel the echo of that warmth, however. That unbearable calm, pulsing faintly inside him. Its eagerness.

He took a step away, then another. Each one was a small victory.

And, as he walked back toward the village, he realised something.

Part of him missed the calm. Part of him longed for it.

And he didn’t know whether that feeling came from him…

Or the forest.