Welcome to the world of
                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

The path was leading to the wood  ahead, and we walked just a little faster.  High above the sun was bearing down relentlessly from a clear blue sky, and what little breeze there was - hardly a whisper - did nothing to make us any more comfortable.  My wife; no longer the slim young thing she had been when we were young, was decidedly wilting, and  I was faring little better.  I was also feeling my age, and my straw hat, my constant friend, with its cooling open weave, was letting in the suns strong rays, burning my scalp; long since devoid of its natural cover.
    Only a few minutes longer and we would be able to take shelter under the canopy of trees, and take a little drink from the plastic bottle in my rucksack.
    It looked like an old wood, not managed or cultivated, being a mixture of oak and beech, birch, and many other varieties. Many of them were familiar enough but with my knowledge of trees limited, I could not name them all.  It seemed to be just as nature intended, where centuries of natural selection and primitive forces had brought the wood to its present state.
     Beneath and between the trees, much thicket and shrubs created quite a dense undergrowth. We managed to push our way through and presently came to a little clearing, with a patch of smooth grass on which we sat, gratefully and wearily, glad at last to be out of the oppressive heat
    It was a few minutes before either of us noticed.  We had been too pre-occupied with relief, thinking of the furnace from which we had just escaped.  We had I suppose, gone about  fifteen, maybe twenty yards from the open field, where moments ago birds had been making their many and varied calls.  A couple of pheasants had been engaged in a noisy exchange, and not far away the sound of a large farming machine, busy in the field, had completed the comfortable sense of ‘country’.
     Now it was silent.
    Not a single sound could be heard either from deeper in the wood, or even from the fields outside, just a stones through away.  It was a strange and eerie silence, disturbing and uninviting; a silence that did not encourage us to dwell.  Much sooner than we anticipated we were both making preparation to resume our walk, despite of the waiting heat.  Indeed it was distinctly chilly now, and the sun would be more welcome than we expected.
We stood up looking to return to the field the way we came.
    “This way I think.” my wife was saying
    “Are you sure; I don’t remember that big bush.  This way surely.”, as I made the first step in another direction.
    We could not see daylight through the trees even though we were so close to the edge of the wood, and my sense of direction was far from positive.
    “Just a few yards this way,” I said, “and if that isn’t right we’ll come back and try your way.”
    A half hearted gesture of acquiescence was all the encouragement I received, so we moved off somewhat unenthusiastically.  Two minutes later it was clear that we were heading in the wrong direction.  My wife’s ‘told you so’ look was not very helpful when I suggested that we should return to the little clearing and start again, but there was no doubting the look of relief that replaced it.
    Just two minutes walk; how could we miss it?  But somehow we did, for the little clearing with its distinctive patch of smooth grass seemed to have disappeared, and the wood if anything was denser than before.  All around it was dense with only a glimmer of daylight; nothing but trunks and branches, bushes and vegetation.  What light there was came from above, but had to make its way through the thick canopy before what little was left, reached the ground.
    It was weird that we could be so uncertain so quickly, and so near to the edge of the wood, but it was clear that we were lost !!
    It was not as though we were in any danger.  It was mid afternoon on a lovely summer day, and it would not be dark for hours yet, so there was nothing to be afraid of.  And yet we could only describe the feeling we felt as fear.
    We were quite cold now, and the heat from which we had fled would have been a blessing, as we had no other clothes with us.  Dressed as we were in shorts and tee shirts, we were shivering.  Hunger was starting to be a problem, not serious yet, but we had nothing with us, and all we had to drink was a little water.  Our route was to have taken us to the village at the other side of the ridge, where an ‘afternoon tea’ of cream scones and coffee was to have been the climax of the walk.
   Instead we were cold and hungry, angry, puzzled, and more than a touch frightened.
    Where was that damned clearing and the edge of the wood?  After that uncertainty we started to very carefully mark our way.  For the moment we were pretty sure of our place in the wood, and after a few ‘trial’ sorties, had been able to return to a certain point.  But still we could not find the field from where we entered the wood, or the clearing in which we had rested.  Eventually we decided to walk in as straight a line as possible until we came to some kind of ‘place’.  A road  or a track perhaps!, or a house maybe!, or something!.
We had only been in the wood for about an hour or so, though it felt forever, and in that short time our mood had changed from being happy, glad to be out in the glorious sunshine - despite it being a little too hot - to apprehension and foreboding.  
    Then we saw something that lifted our spirits somewhat.  Fifteen minutes of difficult walking through waist high scrub, bushes and close trees, with no paths or clearing, had left us breathless, so we were delighted when we came upon a track.  It was narrow and overhung with low branches from both sides, so that it was not well lit, but it was a track.
    “It must lead to somewhere.” I remarked, trying to be cheerful.
   “But which way?”  My wife enquired, not to be cheered so easily.  “One way might lead to somewhere, but it might just as easily be coming ‘from’ somewhere”
    “Oh that’s splitting hairs.” I responded, not wanting to be put off.  “Either way it must be heading somewhere.”
   “Which way do you think then?”  I asked, trying to placate her, or to ease her anxiety.
    In order to avoid various hazards, including a little stream and one or two gully’s, our fight through the wood had not been as straight as we might have wished, so any notion of ‘direction’ that we might have had earlier was soon lost.  So it was perhaps unfair of me to put the onus on her, but on the other hand she had as much chance as me to get it right.
     I sat on a biggish moss covered rock to catch my breath while she considered.  If we looked to the left I noticed, the path seemed to curve to the right, and when we looked to the right it seemed to bend to the left.
 After a few minutes she sat down too. An old dead branch from a nearby tree made a tempting seat, but as she put her weight on it, it collapsed beneath her, causing her to cry out as she slithered down to the ground.  
“I don’t know.” she blurted finally, near to tears and trying to clean the dirt from her shorts.
     The time was steadily moving on, and we were no nearer to getting out of this wood than we had been nearly two hours ago. There was still plenty of time before our predicament became a cause for concern, but we were feeling very unnerved to find ourselves in such an unaccountable situation.
    “OK,” I said, seeing her distress, and bending down to pick up a small stone, which I  held out in my closed fists before her. “If you guess right we’ll go right; and if not we’ll go the other way . . . that all right?”
She considered for a moment and then said right.
    Good I thought, since neither of us can tell, it’s now a fifty fifty choice.  I waited for her to choose which hand.
    “Which one” I asked again, thinking she had forgotten.
    “I told you; right . . . wake up at the back”
    “It was a timely little joke, and it lifted our spirits as we started out on this tunnel of a track. It meandered a little but both of us felt that it was inclined mostly to the left, and wondered when it would bring us to something, or somewhere.
    Suddenly, after walking for well over an hour my wife stopped and pointed.  This time she could not stop the tears, and now there was no disguising the feeling we both were feeling.
    It was fear pure and simple, for there in the silent half light was the mossy stone on which I had sat; and there was the tree who’s rotten branch had collapsed, unable to bear the weight of a weary traveller, but which was now magically recovered to its previous condition.
    More frightening however was the little cottage which was now clearly visible further along the path, which we must have passed when we set off after our little rest.  True, it was set back a little way from the path, but neither of us could understand how we could have missed it.
    “I’m certain it was not there last time.” I could hear a frightened whisper in my ear “I’m sure we would have seen it.”
    “But if it wasn’t there then, how can it be there now?” I whispered back.
    It was a question that didn’t need an answer, for it was to myself that it was directed, my own self belief being tested.
    Just then we stopped as if frozen when the door of the cottage opened and out came a young lady with an armful of washing and carrying what looked like a peg bag.  She went to a line at the side of the house and stared to peg out her shirts and blouses, underwear and over-wear.  Then she stopped, looking in our direction as though she had just seen us. A moment later she waved at us.
    “Good afternoon” she called out “I’m sorry to stare at you but you startled me a little; we don’t get many visitors in the forest; are you just out for a walk?”
    She was very young, perhaps twenty, tall, slim but not skinny, and seemed to have a sunny disposition.  Her smile was sweet and gay, and she seemed to be as pleased to see us as we were to see her.  She was dressed rather poorly, quaintly even, and her long dark skirt belied the heat of the day; a white blouse which did look rather cool, and her head was nearly covered with a silky scarf. Below the scarf fell her long fair tresses as they tumbled around her shoulders and down her back.
    The little clearing in which the cottage stood was bathed in sunshine and birds were flying amongst the trees.  For the first time since we had entered the wood, we could hear the sounds, the rustles and the crackles, that one would expect in a woodland environment.
    It seemed so natural that the incongruity of the situation, for the time at least, was lost on us. More important was the sense of relief we felt that now we should be able to find our way out.
    “To tell you the truth we are lost,” my wife called out, eager to shed the feeling of apprehension, and anxious to take advantage of this moment of good fortune, “we’ve been in the wood for some hours now, and we can’t seem to find our way out.”
    By now the lady had come to her gate, and gave us another wide smile.
    “Yes, it’s a bit difficult; there aren’t many paths in this remote part of the forest. You must be tired, would you like a drink to see you on your way?”
    “My wife gave me a quick glance, uncertain perhaps, and still - as was I - very mixed up.  But I didn’t say anything to stop her, and besides, it was suddenly warm again; the atmosphere decidedly less hostile.
    “I’ve just made some lemonade which I know will refresh you.” Her smile, her inviting manner, and the bait of refreshing lemonade was too much.
    “That would be lovely.”
    We spoke almost in unison, and walked towards the gate which the young lady opened as we approached.
    “It’s a bit stuffy in the house; why don’t you sit there in the shade while I fetch the lemonade” indicating a bench under the shady branches of a Sycamore.
    We sat down and waited; wondering; bemused.  
How was it possible to not have seen the cottage and the clearing.  It should be sinister, just as the wood had been; and yet it was not. Why indeed had the wood felt so sinister, and why had they felt so frightened and alone?.
    The lady reappeared carrying a wooden tray on which were four wooden beakers.
    “There you are” she said as she handed a beaker to my wife, and then one to me.
    “I think you will enjoy my lemonade” she said as she took a beaker herself, and then putting the tray and the other tumbler on the ground by her side.
    And enjoy it we did.
    My wife, in the way that ladies somehow can, asked the question that was also on my mind.
    “Who is the other drink for . . . your husband perhaps?”
    “Oh no” she laughed, but there was a long pause before she said “It’s just a spare if one of you would like  some more”
    “Yes please,” I said bending down, stretching to reach it, “it really is very refreshing.”
    The warm and pleasant ambiance disappeared when I picked up the beaker, only to find that it was empty.   The mystery of the whole episode returned and I felt uneasy again.
    Our host noticed as I put down the empty beaker on the grass by my side.
    “I’m sorry I seem to have used the beaker with a crack in it, but never mind, I will go and get some more.”
    “No, we must get on, and you have been very kind.”
    I had noticed that there was no sign of any lemonade on the tray, supposedly from the cracked beaker, and I thought we had both had enough excitement for one day
    “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us how to get out of the wood, and we will be on our way.”
    “You must have missed the lane at the end of the round.” she said “If you go back the way you came its on this side.” raising her left hand as she spoke
    We thanked the smiling lady for her hospitality, and went upon our way. It was not until we were a good while on that either of us spoke.  It was so unreal, for now that we were back in the wood it was cold again. Cold and silent; but at least we knew that we would find a lane, and it would be on our left.
    We walked with renewed vigour, and in truth the welcome we had recently enjoyed had revived our sprits, not to mention tired limbs and aching bones, so we were making quite good progress on this confined pathway. Even so we judged that we must have gone more than half way round the ‘round’, as the young lady had called it.
    “I’m sure we haven’t missed it; I’ve been looking very carefully.”
    “Me too, but it’s looking odd again.”
    Another half an hour and suddenly there it was, much further than we had expected, but just ahead on the left was a little area where the trees were thinner, and the lane was next to it, visible in spite of it being very much overgrown.
    What a relief, and we both allowed ourselves the luxury of a smile. But something made me pause, then stop.  There was something odd, mysterious.  I could not help staring at the tree at the edge of the clearing.   How many trees make a wood?; and how many trees make a forest?  I don’t know, and I don’t how many trees I had seen during the day, but I knew for certain that I had seen that tree before. It was the Sycamore under which we had sheltered from the sun, enjoyed the hospitality from a smiling and charming young lady, and drank her lemonade.  I waked across to get a closer look.  I could not understand why there was no sign of the cottage, other than some piles of rubble, nearly hidden by the overgrowth.  As I walked around I my foot came upon something on the ground and bent down to pick it up.
    There was something else, for just ahead, beyond the lane, I saw the stone where I had rested when we had first come upon ‘the round’; and the decayed branch, but this time it was broken and crushed once more, just as we had left it when it refused to be sat upon.  If there had been any doubt that it was the same clearing; the same tree, that doubt was now gone.
    “Come on.” I said, getting hold of my wife’s arm. “Let’s get out of here while we can; I can’t take much more of this.”
    We walked and trotted, ignoring beating hearts and tired legs. We covered as much distance as we could and as quickly as we could, hoping and praying that we would not find ourselves back at the cottage again.
    The lane was a little wider than the ‘round’ path, but still under a canopy of overhanging leaves, and as it curved first to the left and then to the right, it was still like walking in a tunnel.  Suddenly, and wonderfully, I could see light ahead and reached out to squeeze my wife’s hand.
    “I think we are nearly there.”
    “The light at the end of the tunnel.” she was saying, as though reading my thoughts.
    In just a few minutes we were at the edge of the wood where the little lane joined the road which ran down into the valley and the village. We had made it to the ridge, and before us we could see our intended target when we started the walk this morning.
    I looked at my watch - nearly seven, though the sun was still quite high, and warm.
    “Too late for afternoon tea,” I said, “but if they will let us in at the restaurant dressed like this I’ll treat you to a nice meal.”
    “Ooh yes please,” my wife answered, “I’m starving.”
    It was early, and in any case many of the restaurants customers were walkers so there was no problem about being served, and soon they were tucking in, our appetites sharpened by the events of the day.
    While we were drinking our coffee the waiter came to see that all was well and that we had enjoyed the meal.
    “We certainly have,” I answered, “and we were ready for it.”
    “You been walking very far then?” asked the waiter in an easy and friendly manner.
    “Not really,” my wife broke in “but we found ourselves in the wood on top of the hill, and then we couldn’t find our way out . . . took us ages.”
    “Oh you mean ‘Robins wood?’ he nodded.  “It used to be part of a huge forest, but there’s not much left of it now. It’s only a few hundreds yards wide now; I can’t see how you could have got lost in there.”
    He was clearly amused, but neither of us wanted to get too involved in how big the wood was.
    But my wife was intrigued. “Why do they call it Robins Wood?” she asked
    “Can’t say for sure, but the story goes that years ago; a hundred or so; a man who lived in a cottage in the wood was hanged for killing his wife and her lover. Just before he died he said that they were ‘somewhere’ in the forest, but they say that their bodies were never found”
    “Maybe he was Robin.” he added.
    “Maybe she was Robyn” my wife suggested, a half smile just creasing her cheeks.
    “Or maybe Robin was the lover.” My contribution, though it was no more positive than the others.
We finished our coffee, thanked the waiter, and then set of on another longish walk to our accommodation in the next village.
    It was with a feeling of immense relief that we finally got back to our small hotel, and the sanctuary of our room.  It had been a day, and one we would not forget in a long time.  Neither of us expected that we would get much sleep that night. In any event we talked long into the small hours, unable to put it out of our minds.
Especially me, for I felt that I had solved the riddle; at least a part of it.
    “Don’t you see,” I tried to explain, “when we walked ‘the round’ the first time, we went anti-clockwise; back in time.  That’s why we had to go all the way round again; to get back to our own time.  If the lady had not sent us back the way we came, we would have been lost forever.”
    Sleep was now beginning to claim her, and I don’t think she heard or understood my meaning, any more than I did myself.
    No matter, I thought, as I settled down, hoping that I too might find sleep, and thinking that in the morning would this would all seem just like a dream?.
     ‘I wonder, I wonder;’ were my last thought as I started to doze.  For now, safely put away in my rucksack, was the cracked wooden beaker, found in the long grass where I had laid it down a hundred years before.


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