Between Darkness and the Light

by Paul T. H. Mitchener

  Bert wasn’t tall but very well built, aged somewhere in his mid-sixties, a kind, rounded, weather-beaten and unshaven face. He had long, unkempt, grey hair that seemed to stick out in all directions, and slightly buckled teeth. He was wearing a pair of old dungarees, but the bib that should have been held up by two straps over his shoulders was held up by only one, allowing the corner of the bib to fold down, revealing half of his bare chest through his open, collarless white shirt.

  Bert had a very strong, local accent which to some would be difficult to understand, but having lived in Whitchurch all his life Henry was used to it and found no difficulty in understanding him. “Well, boy… cat got ya tongue?!” he bellowed out, making poor Henry jump again, this time hitting his head on part of the fallen tree that lay on the hut’s roof, making the hut creak again. “Get offer, I said, before you urt er any more than you ave already!” Bert bellowed again. Henry managed to compose himself just enough to stand up. “Henry… my name is Henry… Henry Harris,” he replied, trying in vain to regain a little more of his composure. “Well, Henry Harris, are ya up to the job?” Bert said in a quiet but more sinister tone. “Job… What job?” Henry replied sheepishly. “The bloody job advertised in the window… Are you blind as well as deaf, boy?” Henry glanced back at the notice. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about… Besides, I know nothing about forests or animals,” Henry replied. “Woodland!” Bert shouted, making Henry jump yet again. “It’s a woodland… not a bloody forest! Where does you think you lives…? Bloody Amsolia or sum wheres.”

  Still finding it difficult to stand his ground and not run, Henry replied, “I live here,” this time trying to sound a little more confident and less intimidated. “Have done so all my life… But I have never seen you around here before,” he continued. “Not been looking in the right place, then, ave ya…? I’ve been in these parts of the woodland as long as anybody around ere can be bovvered to remember,” Bert replied so quietly that it was barely audible. “Not that any bugger around ere cares much neither,” he continued. “Nuffink I do matters to folks this whereabouts… That why we needs sum help in caring for the old dear,” he said, referring to the woodland. “Someone who knows the modern world.” He paused and leant forward and looked directly into Henry’s eyes, and then said in a sinister tone, “Someone like you, I’d say.” Trying not to get into any further conversation with this strange man, Henry stated abruptly, “Well, Bert, it was nice to meet you… And I can assure you that I’m not the man for the job… So I’ll say my goodbyes and be on my way… and … Oh, good luck with finding someone for the job.” He turned towards home but felt a twinge run down the back of his neck knowing that he was still being watched by the odd old man.

  But no sooner had he taken a step, when he tripped over something that wasn’t there just a few seconds earlier. He fell head first into the wet, leaf-covered, muddy ground. “Shit!… What the…” Henry cursed as he hit the ground with the grace of an old sack of potatoes. “Mind where you’re putting your big, clumsy feet!” Something roared at him in a strange growling voice. Looking up, Henry found himself face to face with a large, heavily built, pure white cocker spaniel, but not like any spaniel he had seen before. This dog had large, lion-like paws and a brown, butterfly-shaped marking on one side, with light brown ears and rings around its eyes. “You could hurt someone someday with those feet,” the dog continued. Henry was now face to face with the dog and almost touching its big, brown, wet nose. He lay there for what seemed to be minutes, but in reality was only a few seconds, not wanting to believe that the voice he had just heard was coming from a dog.

  “Well,” the dog said, “are you going to just lie there all day or get up and say sorry for kicking me halfway across the track?”

  Henry gingerly sat up, taking a few seconds to regain his composure and was now almost face to face with the talking dog. “Sorry,” he said, as if he was talking to human. “I didn’t see you there.” He paused. “Can you really speak?” he asked whilst trying to come to terms with the fact that he was having a conversation with a dog. “Can I speak…? The impertinence of it… Of course I can speak… If I couldn’t, boy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”

  “This is Ben,” Bert interrupted. “Ben… is like me… a carer of the woodland.” Lost for words, Henry didn’t respond, but then suddenly noticed that his backside was wet from sitting on the mud and jumped up onto his feet again. But he still couldn’t take his eyes off the dog and remained staring at it the whole time he was wiping the leaves and mud off his trousers.

  Ben looked up at Henry and then up to Bert and growled, “What a rude boy … he’s as rude as they come… First he kicks me halfway across the countryside… then he has the audacity to stand there staring at me as if he’s never seen a dog before.” He looked back at Henry. “Are you all there, boy…? Cat got your tongue?” Ben said, with a tone of sarcasm in his voice. Ben had never been the friendly type and didn’t care much for being stared at at the best of times, especially by a mere human. “Can’t you do anything else other than just stand there like an idiot?” he growled. “Yes,” Henry managed to spit out. “Good… Then you could stop staring and clear off home,” Henry started to back away; he had more than enough of these two and wanted to get as far away from them as soon as possible and didn’t want to miss this opportunity to escape their company.

  He turned away and started to head back down the track towards the town, a little shocked and more than a little bewildered by his encounter with the talking dog. He quickly picked up his pace, a little faster with each step he took, but he could still feel both Bert’s and Ben’s eyes following him. Then abruptly he heard Bert shout out after him, “Does I know your mum, boy?” Henry stopped but didn’t look back. “You said your name is Harris… Your mum… Is ere name Hazel…? Hazel Harris?” he said but it was more a statement than a question.

  Henry turned to face the odd-looking couple, a little taken back. The fact that these two strangers might remotely know his mother was, to say the least, a surprise to him. She never seemed to leave the house except for shopping, let alone go into the woods. “I told you he’s a rude young man,” Ben growled. “Yes!” Henry shouted back, now becoming a little fed up with all the insults. “Yes… My mum’s name is Hazel… so what of it?” he continued. “And how on earth do you know her?”

  Ben stepped forward. “See… See I told you… I told you he’s a rude…” Ben started to say, but this time Bert made a small motion with his hand and Ben went quiet. “Your mum is alright, Henry… she’s one of the best.” Bert looked down at the talking dog who, after giving Bert a dirty look for shutting him up, nodded in agreement. “Sorry bout ya dad, though,” Bert continued. “That wasn’t anyone’s fault ’cept that damned…” Bert hesitated. “Nothing could ave been done bout what appened… all was done that could ave been done.” Bert seemed to go into his own thoughts for a second, then boomed out, “I spose you knows all about that, though… Being the ex-host master’s son and all!” Henry didn’t, of course: he hadn’t any idea of the circumstances surrounding his father’s disappearance. His body was never found. Even though his mother never talked about it, he knew it was something she blamed herself for and something she would never get over. Henry took a step closer to Bert. “What do you know of my father…? And why did you call him the ex-host master?” Henry asked, sounding a little frightened. “How do you know anything about me and my family…? I’ve only just met you.” Bert pondered a second and then answered in a kind, almost sympathetic manner, “Boy… I knows a lot about ya mother… and ya father, too, come to it… and I can assure you of somefink, they are… or were… the best kind of people you could ever wish to know.” He paused. “If ya wants to know more… then I suggest ya speak with ya mother… It ain’t my place to tell ya nuffink.”

  Bert looked down at Ben and then went silent. He looked back in Henry’s direction, waiting for him to say something but nothing came. Henry was f
ar too confused to say anything more and was feeling mentally drained from the whole experience of the afternoon to feel like asking more questions from these two. Even if he did, in truth he had no idea of what to ask them. However, one thing he was sure of and that was he’d had enough of these two odd individuals and just wanted to head for home: he was tired, hungry, cold and wet, and now, thanks to Bert and Ben, totally confused. So without another word he turned away and continued to walk back in the direction of his home. Bert and Ben stayed where they were for a few minutes, watching the boy until he was out of sight, Bert looked down at Ben for a second and then turned towards the woodland and lumbered off until he disappeared into the undergrowth. Ben sat where he was for some time after they both had left, still looking in the direction Henry went. Questions started to enter his mind about how much the boy really didn’t know about his parents and their past. But more importantly, if he was the son of lady Hazel, why hadn’t she told him anything of who she was and who the boy’s father was? The poor boy seemed to have no idea of what destiny had in store for him. Ben sniffed the air a few times, looked in the direction Bert had gone, sniffed once more, and then stood up and followed in Bert’s footsteps.

  Henry headed straight for home as fast as his tired limbs would allow, cutting through one of the new, small housing estates that had just been built on the land that for as long as he could remember was one of the loveliest meadows he’d ever seen. He remembered how he used to run and play in the meadow and how he and his mother chased butterflies, always letting them go after they caught one. He also remembered how sad he felt when the contractors moved in, the same sad feelings he always got whenever he saw a tree being cut down or a hedgerow being ripped out. He could never understand fully why he felt that way but he knew that it wasn’t right to rape the countryside for profit and political gain, but what could he do about it? He was just a boy. People say that you can’t stop progress, but Henry always felt that someday someone should at least try to slow it down a little.

  Henry stopped and paused at the back door to his home. It was dark and had been for half an hour or so. He listened at the door to see if he could hear his mother: the last thing he needed now was to see her, he was far too tired and confused by the day’s events and wasn’t ready to confront her just yet on what the odd couple in the woodland had said to him. First, he needed to get a few things straight in his own mind before he even thought of questioning her. Pulling down the latch, he gingerly pushed the door open: the kitchen lights were on, so there was a good chance that his mum would be up. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door and immediately could smell that she had been preparing a meal, but thankfully she wasn’t in the kitchen. He shut the door quietly behind him. He could hear that the TV was on in the living room so he started to make his way across the kitchen, hoping that he could make it up the stairs and into his own room before she came back into the kitchen. But just before he got to the foot of the stairs, his mother appeared at the living room door.

  “Where have you been…? I’ve been worried sick… You’ve not eaten all day… And look at the state of you… You must be frozen… And look at the state of your trousers!” Henry just stood where he was and looked down at his muddy trousers. Still not wishing to get into another argument, he said, “Mum… please… I’m tired, wet and miserable and all I want now is to have a bath and go to my room.” He turned to go up the stairs. “Don’t turn your back on me… or take that tone with me young man…Who do you think you are!?” his mother shouted. “I don’t know, Mum,” Henry replied, now facing her. “I don’t know who I am… or who you are… And more to the point who my dad was… Or perhaps I should ask Bert and his talking dog.” With that, he turned and headed up the stairs without looking back at his mother or waiting for a reply, but if he had, he would have seen how hurt she was by the look of sadness on her face.

  Fortunately for Henry, his mother didn’t follow him and left him alone to take a welcome long soak in a hot bath. Although he enjoyed the comfort of the hot water, he still wasn’t relaxed, trying to come to terms with the day’s disturbing events. Despite the fact that earlier that day he had a conversation with a talking dog, he was more than concerned how the two odd-balls knew his mother.

  After a good hour soaking, Henry returned to his room, not having seen or heard anything from his mother since he left her standing at the bottom of the stairs. He felt bad for the way he had spoken to her… But what’s done is done: there was nothing he could do about it but accept the guilt he felt. After drying and dressing ready for bed, Henry was sitting on the edge of his bed, just staring out of his window, when a light tap sounded at his bedroom door. He looked up as his mother gingerly opened the door and then stepped into his room bearing a tray full of hot food and drink.

  “Here… I thought that you might be in need of something hot,” she said whilst placing the tray on the bottom of his bed. She then turned to leave the room. She opened the door and stopped, then, without turning to face him, said softly and with compassion, “I am still your mother… whatever you’ve heard… or believe.” She paused, then turned to face him. “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.” She continued. “Nothing else matters… I’m your mother… and I love you.” She paused to hold back her tears. “We’ll talk when you are ready,” and with that she closed the door softly behind her. Without saying anything, Henry just sat and watched his mother leave the room, leaving him staring at the door behind her for a second. He then looked down at the tray, realising again that he hadn’t eaten all day and how hungry he was. Deep in thought and still staring at the tray, he whispered, “I love you, too, Mum,” and with that he started to tuck in.

  That night found Bert standing at the edge of a clearing deep within the ancient woodland which he had cared for and loved for so many centuries. He watched as thousands of tiny night nymphs filled the air, all the colours of the rainbow reflecting off their tiny wings as they danced in the moonlight, enjoying the clear air and celebrating life as they did most nights, especially around the change of seasons. It was late autumn and they could sense that winter was just around the corner. The clearing was large and circular. Standing proud in its centre stood a huge, ancient oak tree, reaching as high as the eye could see and its canopy reaching the edge of the clearing, its base surrounded by mushrooms of all sizes and colours. Most old oaks were considered large, but none could hold a candle to this one: it was enormous and towered over every other tree around it.

  Bert walked over to its base and stared up through the large branches, noting how autumn had changed the colour of the leaves from deep green to a mottled golden brown. Leaves had already started falling and lay on the ground around him. He was always mesmerised by the colourful nymphs dancing through its branches and the beauty of the stars in the clear, cool night sky. He had often spent hours just enjoying the sights and smells and sheer beauty of the woodland at night. It was his favourite time of day and tonight was no exception. Except tonight he wasn’t here to relax: he had little time to spend enjoying the beauty around him, for tonight he was there to answer a call.

  Finally, he sighed and placed his large hands gently on the gnarled bark of the old oak. With his eyes closed and head low, he whispered, “Acca, my old friend… I am here.” A moment or two went by with no answer. He then said, “Am I right in what I feel about this boy…? Is he the one we have been wanting for… for so very long…? Tell me, old friend… Is he to be the next host?” The tree didn’t respond immediately, then very slowly and very faintly it started to vibrate. The woodland around it went deathly silent: there was no buzzing of insects or birds, the nymphs disappeared into the darkness of the surrounding trees, and it was as if the whole world had fallen away, and standing alone in the void of the night were just Bert and the old oak.

  The tree didn’t always communicate with Bert: it only did so when the situation was serious enough to require it to do so. It was an old and ancient guardian of the woodland and, l
ike many others across the world, through its root system it could connect to all things living throughout the woodland, and even the entire world. As a result, it could monitor the health of the earth itself. When required, the old tree could also connect to the past and at times could forecast the future. Although the future could never be written in stone, people and events could, and often do, change any predicted outcome. Bert pressed his hand harder on the tree, sweat now pouring down his back and off his forehead, intensely concentrating on what the tree was telling him. After a moment or two and without warning the tree gave one large shudder, covering Bert with leaves and then it went still, having no more to say. The whole woodland stayed silent for a moment, and then, ever so gradually, everything started to go back to normal. The nymphs reappeared, dancing in celebration to something only they knew about, insects started buzzing again, and all the usual familiar sounds returned to the night, the old tree now silent and still… Until the next time.

  Covered in sweat and leaves, Bert stepped back from the tree and shook his head as he mumbled to himself, “ Well, boy, I hope you’re up to it.” He then walked over to the edge of the clearing and turned to look back at the old oak. “Old friend… you’ve never been wrong in the past… but in this case, I hope you are,” he said softly. “He’s never wrong,” a voice sounded from out of the dark. “You know that… So why question him now?” Bert turned to his left to find Ben sitting in the shadows just a few feet away. “I know,” Bert sighed, “but does you fink this lad is up to the task.” At first Ben didn’t respond, then after a little consideration said in his usual growling tone, “I would be only too happy to give you my opinion… Assuming, that is, you tell me what’s been said.” Bert then told Ben all the old oak had told him, pausing now and then for Ben’s usual interruptions, but none came. After a moment’s thought, Ben said again in his usual manner, “By what I’ve seen of the boy, I don’t think he’ll be up to it.” Ben paused. “We’ll have to decide who’s going to tell him… and come to think of it… who’s going to tell Hazel… She’ll be livid.” Ben scratched under his chin. “And that’s one person I don’t intend to upset,” he growled.