by Nick Gifford
Then, after a short time, he heard voices. A man, a woman. Walking along the path. Ben looked at Zeb and saw him nod.
Beasts.
They hid and waited. It was easy to forget what a dangerous world he now inhabited.
9 The Old Man in the Woods
“I’d like you to meet someone, Ben,” said Walter. “I think he might help you.”
Ben had been with the woodland community for three days now, spending his days with Zeb and his nights sleeping on the hard floor of the community hall. Slowly, he was learning how to find his way around, how to hide himself and conceal his tracks, what was safe to eat and what was poisonous. At times he felt that he was making good progress, but at others he still felt out of his depth – lost in a strange world.
He lived in the present: each day an achievement, another day survived. He tried not to think about what he had left behind and he dared not think too far ahead about what may come. He just tried to learn and to fit in.
“Where are we going?” he asked Walter. The community leader took him under the dark canopy of the woods, away from the brook where Ben had been helping two young women, Anna and Rose-Marie, to prepare some long stringy roots that Rose-Marie’s grandmother would boil down into a medicinal paste. While they worked, they’d been listening to the radio, the volume turned low: at first, strange music, and then a drama that seemed to revolve around who it was polite to share blood with.
“I want you to meet Old Harold,” said Walter. “He’s one of the wisest people I know. Must be about seventy years old. Lived alone in the woods all his life. He doesn’t talk to the rest of us very often, but I keep an eye on him – listen to his tales and make sure he’s all right. I think you have a lot in common with him, Ben.”
~
Old Harold lived in one of the oldest trees in the woods.
Walter and Ben had left the path some time ago. Now they were threading their way through a tightly packed thicket of young trees, spread over the gentle slope of a hill. “This area was felled some time ago,” Walter explained. “They were going to do some quarrying but for some reason it was abandoned and the trees grew back again like this. Harold says he likes it because it’s full of nightingales in the summer.”
After a time, they reached the far end of the young growth and soon they came to Old Harold’s tree. It was an oak, and its bark was near-black and ridged and knotted into endless patterns. The trunk was hollow and if there had been an opening big enough you could probably have parked a small car inside.
“Harold,” said Walter, poking his head into a crack in the trunk. His voice echoed inside the hollow tree. “I’ve brought Ben. I’ve brought the boy we talked about yesterday.”
He stepped up onto a raised root and then clambered through the cracked trunk and dropped inside.
Ben followed him. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Inside, the tree had been carved out to resemble a small room: there were shelves lined with jars and books, seats cut out of the wood, a long, low shelf where Ben suspected the old man slept.
A spiral of narrow steps wound up around the inside of the hollowed trunk. Ben’s eyes followed their course and then he noticed a face protruding into the circle of light above them.
It was an old man, with white hair tied back with a leather band and a thick beard that had been twisted into a series of little pig-tails.
There was a pause, then the man said, “Come on up, lad. Come into the light where I can see you.”
Walter turned. “I’ll leave the two of you,” he said. “You can find your way back, can’t you, Ben?”
Ben nodded. It was the first time he’d been left without a chaperone since he’d come to the woods. Perhaps they were learning to trust him, now.
He climbed the tiny steps, holding on to any handholds he could find. Old Harold must be very agile to use steps like these.
The old man was sitting on a bench cut into dead wood where the tree branched out from its enormous trunk. He was wearing a cloak, as many woodlanders did, and his bare knees thrust out from underneath it to provide a resting place for his chin.
Ben settled next to him. From this viewpoint he could see out across the tops of the younger trees to the main bulk of the woodland. The trees seemed to roll away for miles and miles, until they were finally lost in the distance.
“The boy from another world,” said the old man, after a long silence.
Ben peered at him, not knowing what to say. The old man was studying him closely.
“You make them uncomfortable with your stories,” said the man. “Your claims of a better world. They tell stories like that to the children, but they don’t believe. If they believed such a thing, then they would despair because they are here and not there. Do you see what I mean? You frighten them, Ben. That’s what Walter wants me to explain to you. He doesn’t want you damaging the community with your stories.”
Ben had already worked that out: ever since Robby’s attack he had stopped telling people about his world. He nodded. “I know,” he said. “But I had to tell them. I had to find out if they knew how to get back.”
“Back,” said Old Harold. “Back to another world that only exists in the stories we tell our children.”
“I’m not mad,” said Ben stubbornly.
“Not mad, perhaps,” said Old Harold. “But you believe things that cannot be true.”
“If my memories aren’t true, then where have I come from? How did I suddenly appear here?”
“You’ve had a frightening experience,” said Old Harold. “Walter tells me you were held prisoner by the vampires. Who knows where you have come from? You’ve blocked your memories out and filled them in with stories told to you as a child: a magical, safe world where there are no vampires to hold you prisoner. It’s a natural thing to do, Ben. You’re not the first person to go through this.”
Ben shook his head. “It’s true,” he said. “I don’t belong here.”
“But you are here,” said Old Harold patiently. “And you are not in the hands of the vampires. You should, at least, be thankful for that.”
The old man’s voice was strangely soothing, convincing.
“The stories,” Ben said. “I don’t remember any stories. All I remember is living in a world that is not like this.”
“There are many stories,” said Old Harold. “They get changed about and mixed up in the retelling, as all stories do. We tell of worlds where everything is different. We tell our children of worlds where there are no vampires, Ben. Just the same as you tell. We tell of passages between this world and a safer one.”
He held his hands up, their backs turned to Ben, fingers spread. He moved them together so that the fingers interlocked. “We tell of worlds so close together that they are almost the same place, of passages between worlds where the two fit together. All stories. Fantasy. Sometimes a vampire from this world enters the safe world and causes terror. We use that story to frighten children, to remind them that the world is dangerous after all.”
Passages between the worlds, universes overlapping like the gnarled old fingers of Harold’s hands. What if it was true? Could that explain how Ben found himself here? A place where two worlds overlapped. Maybe that was where the vampire legends in his own world came from?
“Sometimes we tell a story where one individual has special powers: a sensitivity. That person can find the special places where the two worlds brush close together and he or she can use this talent to open up a passageway between the worlds. That story gives hope. It suggests that there is always something better that we may achieve.
“We use the stories in many ways, Ben. We use them to entertain and we use them to teach our children important lessons about the world. But they are always just that: stories.”
“But it’s true,” said Ben. “It happened to me.”
“So you are the special one, are you? You are the individual who can find a way between the worlds.”
Perhaps. Or
perhaps he had just stumbled through by accident, when the passageway had been open – a freak natural event.
“You said I’m not the first to go through this,” said Ben. “Are there others who have made the same claims? Are they all fooling themselves with stories from their childhood?”
Old Harold nodded. He leaned forward, so that his head was close to Ben’s. “There have been others, Ben. I was one of them. That’s why Walter asked me to explain it to you: because I know what it is like to believe the unbelievable.”
Ben stared at him in surprise. “You?” he gasped. “You’ve been through this and you still tell me it’s not true?”
Old Harold nodded again. “I was young,” he said. “About ten years old. I wasn’t as lucky as you, Ben. I don’t know what happened to me, but I was wandering around the countryside, lost, when I was picked up by a vampire. He kept me locked in his coal cellar for weeks. There’s a very fine line between life and death and that monster kept me clinging to that line for all of that time. I had barely enough blood in my body to survive. I can still remember the terrible tiredness – I could barely move at times. And the pain, and the awful fear.
“For some reason the vampire left me alone for several days. I started to recover and I realised that might be my only chance. I worked and worked at the hinges on the door until one came adrift. The door twisted on the bolt and the remaining hinge, and I was so thin I could force my way through the gap.
“I ran and I walked and eventually I crawled and by chance I ended up in the woods and I was found by the woodlanders. I’ve never left this place since.”
“Where had you come from, before the beast caught you?”
“I don’t know,” said Old Harold. “But for a long time I told people I had come from a world where there were no vampires, where there were no beasts like the one who had locked me in that cellar and drunk me almost dry.
“I was fooling myself, Ben. I didn’t have anything else to believe, so I decorated my past with stories from my childhood.”
“How can you say that when you’ve just told me what you went through?”
“Because it’s true,” said the old man.
Just then a thought struck Ben. “You call them ‘vampires’,” he said. “That’s what we call them in my world.”
Old Harold tipped his head on one side and thought. “Vampires, beasts – what does it matter? What matters is what they do to you.” He paused, then explained, “When Walter came he told me they’d found a boy who ranted about vampires. It’s years since I’d heard that old word. I reckon it’s what we called them when I was a boy. Took me back to when I was a kid, all the terrible things that happened. Can’t remember when we started just calling them beasts. Long time ago, I reckon. They still suck your blood, though!”
He put a comforting hand on Ben’s back. “Do you see what I’m saying to you, son? I never came from another world because there is no other world, only this one. I know you don’t believe me, Ben. I know you probably hate me for trying to tell you that you are mistaken.
“But you will believe me, Ben. You really will. You need to accept the truth of that if you are to survive in this harsh and unfair world of ours.” He waved a hand to indicate the broad expanse of woods. “You need to accept that this is all we have.”
10 Foraging
Ben walked back alone from Old Harold’s tree-house. There were so many competing thoughts in his head that he no longer knew what he really believed.
He thought of how terrible it was that Old Harold had been through the same experience as Ben and that so long ago he had given up believing in the existence of his own world.
But what if what the old man had said was true? That this was all there really was...
There was a sound from up ahead. Voices.
Instantly, Ben melted into the undergrowth, hiding until he was sure it was safe to go on.
This life seemed so natural to him.
That thought came as something of a shock, but it was true. It was as if Zeb had spent the last three days reminding Ben the ways of caution and fear, rather than teaching him.
The voices faded away, and Ben stepped out from hiding. He decided to keep clear of the main paths on his way back, just to be sure.
Was it really so easy to fool himself?
He couldn’t believe it. He had to hang on to his past. He wouldn’t give up like Old Harold had.
And then an awful realisation struck him: the details of his memories were fading. He had only been in this awful upside-down world for a few days, yet it felt as if he had been here for far longer.
When he tried to picture his bedroom, all he could see was that room where Doctor Macreedie had imprisoned him. When he tried to picture Kirby town centre, all he could see was the market square with parking spaces and the beasts coming out of the shops to stare.
And when he tried to picture his parents, he couldn’t do it... The memories were fading.
If they really were memories at all, and not just figments of his own imagination.
~
He lay on the hard floor of the community hall that night, still struggling to remember, still struggling to come to terms with things.
This was his world, he realised. Whatever had happened in his past, this was all that was on offer. It was a dangerous and frightening place, but he had found himself a community. Some of the people were good and some were not so good.
Some of them hadn’t accepted him yet. Robby was one: always looking for conflict, always looking for ways to remind people that Ben was the outsider. Perhaps more dangerous, though, was Alik: a powerful figure in the woodland community. He didn’t trust Ben, he didn’t think he should have been allowed to stay.
But others seemed more ready to welcome him: Walter, Zeb, Ros-Marie and her frail old grandmother. Walter had decided that the best thing was to make sure Ben learned the ways of the woods, which was why he had told Zeb to look out for him. They treated Ben as a young adult here, rather than as just another child. If there was one thing in this world that he liked, then that was it. He supposed people grew up more quickly, living in a world like this.
He tried to stop himself thinking in these terms: comparing this world with the safe world in his memories. He would gain nothing by thinking that way.
This was his world, now. This was all he had.
A noise broke the darkness. The soft tread of feet.
Peering through the gloom, Ben made out a tall figure. Zeb.
The young man came across and squatted by Ben. “Good,” he said. “You’re awake. Dad thought you might like to come foraging tonight. See a bit more of the world.”
Ben swallowed. “Sure,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“McDonnell’s farm. About two miles east, on the edge of a small village called Tippham.”
Ben knew the name. He climbed to his feet.
Outside in the dark, four others were waiting: Anna and Rose-Marie and two teenaged brothers Ben barely knew, Rick and Adam. Anna led the way and they walked in silence for some time.
Eventually, Adam spoke to Ben. “All you have to do is stay quiet and stick close to the rest of us,” he said. “We take whatever we can and we don’t take any big risks. Okay?”
“Of course,” said Ben. “What are we looking for?”
“You never know,” said Zeb. “The only rule is we never take too much of anything. Things we can carry, and things we can’t come by easily in the woods, like clothes and tools, are best. Electrical things, too – anything we can sell.”
“Sell? To the beasts?”
“There’s always a black market,” said Rose-Marie. “Alik and some of the others know where we can shift some of the things we forage. They exchange them for medicines and other supplies we can’t get hold of for ourselves.”
It hadn’t occurred to Ben that there could be anything like that going on. It made sense, he supposed. But it seemed very dangerous.
“How do they manage t
hat?” he asked. “How can you trade with the beasts?”
“Some of them are too stupid to even realise,” said Rose-Marie. “You’ve been close to them, haven’t you, Ben? They can’t just sniff us out, you know. If you don’t make any stupid mistakes you can go into town and not be noticed. I’ve done it myself when I’ve had to. We all have.”
Ben could tell from her voice that she was boasting, probably not telling the truth. But what she said was certainly possible. After all, Ben had walked around Kirby without being found out. He had stayed a night in the Macreedies’ house before the doctor had been sure of his true nature.
“Quiet now,” said Zeb. “We’re nearly there.”
A short time later, the path opened out and there were fields to one side. A line of bungalows stretched along the far side of the field. Some had one or two lights on, but most were in darkness. This must be the village of Tippham.
Now Ben remembered what it was like to be scared, what it was like to know that you were only a single mistake away from a slow and painful death.
Suddenly, all his other worries melted away. All that concerned him right now was remembering all the things Zeb had taught him: how to move silently, how to hide yourself from prying eyes, how to avoid being caught...
~
They came to McDonnell’s farm a few minutes later. The farmhouse was an imposing redbrick building with stone columns at the front door and wooden shutters at the windows. There were lights on, and several cars pulled up in the main yard.
“Looks like there’s a party going on,” said Adam. “Looks like we picked a bad night.”
“We’re here now,” said Anna. “The least we can do is look around.”
The farmhouse was surrounded by big, low out-buildings. Some were rectangular barns, others were arched buildings made from corrugated steel, like the community hall back in the woods.
As they drew closer to the farm, Ben heard animal noises coming from these buildings. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s in there?”
“All kinds of things,” said Anna. “Mainly pigs. Some cattle. Stables for horses – they have some kind of riding school.” She paused, then said, “See the barn? The one with a tractor in the doorway? Alik asked us to look in there. See if there are any tools we can lift. Come on.”
