Chapter 9

The Black Swann looked different in the afternoon, when he returned. It wasn’t a deliberate change. It was an unintentional transformation, brought on by the sun’s descent and the light relinquishing its grip on any onlooker’s sight. A daily, though reluctant, occurrence, where our star must give its limited resources to others on this spinning globe. The building was one of the recipients of this phenomenon, and Edmund was its witness.

It was now less like a refuge and more of a gateway, where people passed through only because there was nowhere else to go. He stood outside a moment longer than necessary, watching the faintly hypnotic sway of the pub sign beckoning travellers in. The painted swan stared back at him, neck arched too far and at too sharp an angle, as though straining toward something it could not reach.

He pushed the door open, entering with the image of the broken bird following him.

The temperature inside struck him first. A heavy, enveloping heat carrying the scent of stale ale, old timber and the faintest trace of citrus from whatever polish the landlord used. They melded into an odour that was both comforting and an affront to the senses. A few patrons huddled around tables, scattered across them like punctuation marks in a sentence no one knew the end of. They looked up as he entered, not sharply or suspiciously, but with the weary resignation of people who knew everyone’s business, even when they didn’t want to.

Other people were an intrusion. They took up time and attention, when Life demanded enough of them anyway, even in a sleepy village such as this.

All eyes returned to their previous occupations, Edmund not being interesting enough to hold their attention.

The landlord stood behind the bar, drying a glass with the same cloth Edmund suspected he’d used every day since time began. The man glanced up, eyes sharp beneath shaggy brows, overdue for a trim that contradicted his neatly cropped hair.

“You look like you’ve seen something,” he said.

Edmund offered a strained smile. He didn’t try to make it appear genuine. Even a fake was took effort.

“Just walked a bit further than intended.”

“Mm.” The landlord placed the glass down and flipped the cloth over his shoulder. “Forest’ll do that.”

Edmund hesitated, his path to the stairs halted by the offhand comment.

“Does it?”

“Aye.” A pint appeared in front of him without request. “Drink it. You’re pale.”

He took it gratefully. The cold glass steadied him, chilling his fingers. He drank, letting it wash the lingering tang of the forest from his throat. The landlord leaned on the bar with both hands. His shoulders hunched and his head dropped, making him peer at Edmund through his brows.

“You spoke to Helen this morning.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Edmund admitted. There was no point in lying.

“And the boy? Did you see him, too?”

“Tom? Yes.”

The landlord’s jaw tightened as his teeth clenched. His head lifted, he sniffed and regarded Edmund straight on.

“Poor lass. Poor lad. Neither of ’em deserved what happened.”

Edmund swallowed, the gulp louder than expected.

“What did happen? They seem…”

He didn’t know how to continue. He couldn’t define exactly how they did seem, so the phrasing of any question would be… questionable.

The landlord didn’t reply. Instead, he took another glass and the familiar cloth, turning it slowly as though the question required a ritual, one he must complete. Only when the glass was polished did he speak.

“Black Thickett’s always had its stories,” he said. “There’s strange noises in the night. People wandering further into the forest than they meant to, without knowing they had. But, for the most part, it left us alone.”

Edmund leaned in unconsciously. The man’s voice was hushed to keep his words away from other ears, and Edmund had no choice. His own ears were eager to grasp each word from the air as soon as it was spoken.

“And now?”

“Now?” The landlord huffed. “Now it’s hungry.”

A silence followed. It was viscous, and Edmund felt he would be able to grab sections of them and pull them apart. He cleared his throat, then took another swig.

“You mean the forest? How…? Hungry for what?”

The landlord looked at him differently then. Really looked. Studying every line of his face, searching for something Edmund wasn’t sure he wanted identified, though he was certain it would be seen under the interrogating stare.

“For hurt,” the man said quietly. “For ache. For loss. Things you can’t carry anymore. Shouldn’t have to.”

It didn’t sound as ridiculous as it should, and that was troubling in itself. It seemed, in Black Thickett, ridiculous was the norm.

“It knows,” the landlord continued, pouring another drink without being asked. “It knows when someone’s lost more than they can bear. More than anyone should have to. When their head’s too full and their chest’s too empty. Forest feels it like a pulse in the earth. Like its roots are… I don’t know… nerves.”

Edmund’s hand tensed around his glass. He couldn’t deny, to himself, anyway, the man’s words meant something to him. He wished he could deny why that were so.

“I’m not…”

“You are.” The interruption was harsh. Abrupt. Perceptive. “Anyone with eyes can see it.”

Edmund stared at the bar, rather than at the man. It was clear of glasses, but not of marks from long years of being the societal centre of the village. He concentrated on the variances in the varnish as if they could become his voice. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The landlord sighed and shook his head, his intent stare easing.

“The forest gives you something back, though. That’s the trouble of it. Calm. Peace. Makes you feel like everything inside you’s been muffled. It’s easier. Like you’re floating.”

Edmund’s breath was caught in the transformation. The sensations he’d felt at the Threshold returned just long enough for him to mourn their leaving again. The way the man had softened felt like clay in warm hands, moulding to the situation.

“The forest doesn’t force you in,” he continued. “Never has. It don’t grab people by the ear. It just… opens the door. An invitation.”

“And people just walk through?” Edmund whispered.

The landlord’s eyes darkened. Another change.

“Smiling.”

The pub seemed to shrink around Edmund, the walls inching closer and the people pressing against him.

“Your friend,” he said quietly. “The one you mentioned the other day.”

“Aye.” The landlord’s grip tightened on the glass. “Terry. Good man. Lost his wife two winters back. He weren’t the same after. Forest called to him, same as it’s calling to you.”

Edmund felt something twist in his chest. He could hear that call. Feel it.

“Did he go in?”

The landlord nodded, curtly, the change of subject not something he wanted to pursue.

“One morning, he did. Said he needed fresh air. Same as everyone says, t’ be fair. He’d walked the edge a few times before that. Said it ‘elped him think. Said it made him feel lighter.”

Edmund momentarily forgot to breathe. This was too familiar. Too close.

“Then, one day, he didn’t come back.”

“Did you look for him?”

“We did. ‘Course.” The man’s expression flickered with old pain. “Whole village looked. But the forest… it doesn’t let you go far. Makes you turn back without knowing it, if you’re not… to its taste. We found his coat near the entrance. That was all.”

Edmund closed his eyes briefly. He opened them quickly when too many images flashed through his mind.

The landlord’s voice lowered, bringing Edmund in closer.

“When Helen’s boy disappeared, we hoped maybe he’d come back like Tom. But Tom, he came back hollow. Like the forest scraped something out of him, all the bits that mattered – make you you – and left the shell.”

Edmund didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t help himself. He needed to know.

“What did he say happened?”

“Nothing,” the landlord said. “He hasn’t spoken a word since. Not one. Just draws.”

The image of Tom’s trembling hand and the dark, impossible shape behind Edmund in the drawing jolted through his mind.

Just draws.

“Forest doesn’t like letting go,” the landlord murmured. “And it remembers folk. Remembers faces. Remembers feelings.”

The pub receded, but left the air feeling colder. Edmund set down his drink with a trembling hand, making it knock against the wood.

“Why tell me all this?”

The landlord hesitated. He frowned as if trying to settle on an answer.

“Because it’s looking at you.”

Edmund’s pulse, which had been dormant, thudded.

“And because,” the landlord added, leaning closer, “you’re still choosing. Once you stop choosing, once you start wanting what it gives you… that’s when it has you.”

A tremor passed through Edmund and he pushed the pint away. It was suddenly bitter in is mouth.

“I don’t want anything from it,” he said firmly. He probably meant it.

The landlord gave a sad, let’s believe that smile.

“Everyone says that. Right up until the moment they step over the line.”

Edmund stood abruptly. His legs felt unstable and his ears buzzed, but he steadied himself with a deep breath.

“I should go.”

To his room or all the way back home?

“Aye,” the landlord said. “Do that. And Edmund…?”

He paused. Edmund, who had begun to walk to the stairs, looked back.

“Don’t walk alone tomorrow. Not near the trees. Not anywhere they can see you.”

Splinters pricked at his spine, and he accepted them. The warning was well founded, though it might be ignored. He nodded, then mounted the stairs to his room.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud that sounded far too much like finality.