The Collected Short Fiction

by Ramsey Campbell

  After breakfast she reread�The Song of the Trees. She turned over the last page of the penultimate chapter and stared at the blank table beneath. At last she pushed herself away from the table and began to pace shortly. Tony tried to keep out of her way. When his own work was frustrated she seemed merely an irritation; he was sure she must feel the same of him. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she called, opening the front door. He didn’t offer to walk with her. He knew she was searching for her conclusion.

  When the rain ceased he carried his painting materials outside. For a moment he wished he had music. But they couldn’t have transported the stereo system, and their radio was decrepit. As he left the cottage glanced back at Di’s flowers, massed minutely in vases.

  The grey sky hung down, trapping light in ragged flourishes of white cloud. Distant trees were smudges of mist; the greens of the field merged into a dark glow. On the near side of the fence the path unfurled innumerable leaves, oppressive in their dark intricacy, heavy with raindrops. Even the raindrops were relentlessly green. Metallic chimes and chirrs of birds surrounded him, as did a thick rich smell of earth.

  Only the wall of the garden held back the green. The heavy jagged stones were a response to the landscape. He could paint that, the rough texture of stone, the amber stone spattered with darker ruggedness, opposing the overpoweringly lush green. But it wasn’t what he’d hoped to paint, and it didn’t seem likely to make him much money.

  Di liked his paintings. At his first exhibition she’d sought him out to tell him so; that was how they’d met. Her first book was just beginning to earn royalties, she had been working on her second. Before they were married he’d begun to illustrate her work.

  If exhibiting wasn’t too lucrative, illustrating books was less so. He knew Di felt uneasy as the breadwinner; sometimes he felt frustrated that he couldn’t earn them more ‘ the inevitable castration anxiety. That was another reason why she wanted The Song of the Trees to sell well: to promote his work. She wanted his illustrations to be as important as the writing.

  He liked what there was of the book. He felt his paintings could complement the prose; they’d discussed ways of setting out the pages. The story was about the last dryads of a forest, trapped among the remaining trees by a fire that had sprung from someone’s cigarette. As they watched picnickers sitting on blackened stumps amid the ash, breaking branches from the surviving trees, leaving litter and matches among them, the dryads realised they must escape before the next fire. Though it was unheard of, they managed to relinquish the cool green peace of the trees and pass through the clinging dead ash to the greenery beyond. They coursed through the greenery, seeking welcoming trees. But the book was full of their tribulations: a huge grim oak-dryad who drove them away from the saplings he protected; willow dryads who let them go deep into their forest, but only because they would distract the dark thick-voiced spirit of a swamp; glittering birch-dryads, too cold and aloof to bear; morose hawthorns, whose flowers farted at the dryads, in case they were animals come to chew the leaves.

  He could tell Di loved writing the book ‘ perhaps too much so, for she’d thought it would produce its own ending. But she had been balked for weeks. She wanted to write an ending that satisfied her totally, she was determined not to fake anything. He knew she hoped the book might appeal to adults too. ‘Maybe it needs peace,’ she’d said at last, and that had brought them to the cottage. Maybe she was right. This was only their third day, she had plenty of time.

  As he mused the sluggish sky parted. Sunlight spilled over an edge of cloud. At once the greens that had merged into green emerged again, separating: a dozen greens, two dozen. Dots of flowers brightened over the field, colours filled the raindrops piercingly. He saw the patterns at once; almost a mandala. The clouds were whiter now, fragmented by blue; the sky was rolling open from the horizon. He began to mix colours. Surely the dryads must have passed through such a landscape.

  The patterns were emerging on his canvas when, beyond the field, someone screamed.

  It wasn’t Di. He was sure it wasn’t a woman’s voice. It was the voice he’d heard yesterday, but more outraged still; it sounded as if it were trying to utter something too dreadful for language. The hills swallowed its echoes at once, long before his heart stopped pounding loudly.

  As he tried to breathe in calm, he realised what was odd about the scream. It had sounded almost as much like an echo as its reiteration in the hills: louder, but somehow lacking a source. It reminded him ‘ yes, of the echo that sometimes precedes a loud sound-source on a record.

  Just an acoustic effect. But that hardly explained the scream itself. Someone playing a joke’ Someone trying to frighten the intruders at the cottage’ The local simpleton’ An animal in a trap, perhaps, for his memory of the scream contained little that sounded human. Someone was watching him.

  He turned sharply. Beyond the nearby path, at the far side of the road, stood a clump of trees. The watcher was hiding among them; Tony could sense him there ‘ he’d almost glimpsed him skulking hurriedly behind the trunks. He felt instinctively that the lurker was a man.

  Was it the man who’d screamed’ No, he hadn’t had time to make his way round the edge of the field. Perhaps he had been drawn by the scream. Or perhaps he’d come to spy on the strangers. Tony stared at the trees, waiting for the man to betray his presence, but couldn’t stare long; the trunks were vibrating restlessly, incessantly ‘ heat-haze, of course, though it looked somehow odder. Oh, let the man spy if he wanted to. Maybe he’d venture closer to look at Tony’s work, as people did. But when Tony rested from his next burst of painting, he could tell the man had gone.

  Soon he saw Di hurrying anxiously down the road. Of course, she must have heard the scream. ‘I’m all right, love,’ he called.

  ‘It was the same, wasn’t it’ Did you see what it was?’

  ‘No. Maybe it’s children. Playing a joke.’

  She wasn’t reassured so easily. ‘It sounded like a man,’ she said. She gazed at his painting. ‘That is good,’ she said, and wandered into the cottage without mentioning her book. He knew she wasn’t going in to write.

  The scream had worried her more than she’d let him see. Her anxiety lingered even now she knew he was unharmed. Something else to hinder her book, he thought irritably. He couldn’t paint now, but at least he knew what remained to be painted.

  He sat at the kitchen table while she cooked a shepherd’s pie in the range. Inertia hung oppressively about them. ‘Do you want to go to the pub later?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll see.’

  He gazed ahead at the field in the window, the cooling tree; branches swayed a little behind the glass. In the kitchen something trembled ‘ heat over the electric stove. Di was reaching for the teapot with one hand, lifting the kettle with the other; the steaming spout tilted above her bare leg. Tony stood up, mouth opening ‘ but she’d put the kettle down. ‘It’s all right,’ he answered her frown, as he scooped up spilled sugar from the table.

  She stood at the range. ‘Maybe the pub might help us to relax,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to relax! That’s no use!’ She turned too quickly, and overbalanced towards the range. Her bare arm was going to rest on the metal that quivered with heat. She pushed herself back from the wall, barely in time. ‘You see what I mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘What’s the matter’ Clumsiness isn’t like you.’

  ‘Stop watching me, then. You make me nervous.’

  ‘Hey, you can’t just blame me.’ How would she have felt if she had been spied on earlier’ There was more wrong with her than her book and her irrationally lingering worry about him, he was sure. Sometimes she had what seemed to be psychic glimpses. ‘Is it the cottage that’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘No, I like the cottage.’

  ‘The area, then’ The field?’

  She came to the table, to saw bread with a carving-knife; the cottage lacked a bread-knife. ‘I like it here. It’s probably just me,�
�� she said, musing about something.

  The kettle sizzled, parched. ‘Bloody clean simplicity,’ she said. She disliked electric stoves. She moved the kettle to a cold ring and turned back. The point of the carving-knife thrust over the edge of the table. Her turn would impale her thigh on the blade.

  Tony snatched the knife back. The blade and the wood of the table seemed to vibrate for a moment. He must have jarred the table. Di was staring rather abstractedly at the knife. ‘That’s three,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right now.’

  During dinner she was abstracted. Once she said, ‘I really like this cottage, you know. I really do.’ He didn’t try to reach her. After dinner he said, ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been distracting you,’ but she shook her head, hardly listening. They didn’t seem to be perceiving each other very well.

  He was washing up when she said ‘My God.’ He glanced anxiously at her. She was staring up at the beams. ‘Of course. Of course,’ she said, reaching for her notebook. She pushed it away at once and hurried upstairs. Almost immediately he heard her begin typing.

  He tried to paint, until darkness began to mix with his colours. He stood gazing as twilight collected in the field. The typewriter chattered. He felt rather unnecessary, out of place. He must buy some books in Camside tomorrow. He felt restless, a little resentful. ‘I’m going down to the pub for a while,’ he called. The typewriter’s bell rang, rang again.

  The pub was surrounded by jeeps, sports cars, floridly painted vans. Crowds of young people pressed close to the tables, on stools, on the floor; they shouted over each other, laughed, rolled cigarettes. One was passing round a sketch-book, but Tony didn’t feel confident enough to introduce himself. A few of the older people doggedly practised darts, the rest surrounded Tony at the bar. He chatted about the weather and the countryside, listened to prices of grain. He hoped he’d have a chance to ask about the scream.

  He was slowing in the middle of his second pint when the barman said, ‘One of the new ones, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ On an impulse he said loudly enough for the people around him to hear: ‘We’re in the cottage across the field from Ploughman’s Path.’

  The man didn’t move hurriedly to serve someone else. Nobody gasped, nobody backed away from Tony. Well, that was encouraging. ‘Are you liking it’ the barman said.

  ‘Very much. There’s just one odd thing.’ Now was his chance. ‘ We keep hearing someone screaming across the field.’

  Even then the room didn’t fall silent. But it was as if he’d broken a taboo; people withdrew slightly from him, some of them seemed resentful. Three women suddenly excused themselves from different groups at the bar, as if he were threatening to become offensive. ‘It’ll be an animal caught in a trap,’ the barman said.

  ‘I suppose so.’ He could see the man didn’t believe it either.

  The barman was staring at him. ‘Weren’t you with a girl yesterday?’

  ‘She’s back at the cottage.’

  Everyone nearby looked at Tony. When he glanced at them, they looked away. ‘You want to be sure she’s safe,’ the barman muttered, and hurried to fill flourished glasses. Tony gulped down his beer, cursing his imagination, and almost ran to the car.

  Above the skimming patch of lit tarmac moths ignited; a rabbit froze, then leapt. Discovered trees rushed out of the dark, to be snatched back at once by the night. The light bleached the leaves, the rushing tunnels of boles seemed subterraneously pale. The wide night was still. He could hear nothing but the hum of the car. Above the hills hung enormous dim clouds, grey as rocks.

  He could see Di as he hurried up the path. Her head was silhouetted on the curtain; it leaned at an angle against the back of the settee. He fumbled high in the porch for the hidden key. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was loosely open. Her typescript lay at her feet.

  She was blinking, smiling at him. He could see both needed effort; her eyes were red, she looked depressed ‘ she always did when she’d finished a book. ‘See what you think of it,’ she said, handing him the pages. Beneath her attempt at a professional’s impersonality he thought she was offering the chapter to him as shyly as a young girl.

  Emerging defeated from a patch of woodland, the dryads saw a cottage across a field. It stood in the still light, peaceful as the evening. They could feel the peace filling its timbers: not a green peace but a warmth, stillness, stability. As they drew nearer they saw an old couple within. The couple had worked hard for their peace; now they’d achieved it here. Tony knew they were himself and Di. One by one the dryads passed gratefully into the dark wood of the beams, the doors.

  He felt oddly embarrassed. When he managed to look at her he could only say, ‘Yes, it’s good. You’ve done it.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad.’ She was smiling peacefully now.

  As they climbed the stairs she said, ‘If we have children they’ll be able to help me too. They can criticise.’

  She hoped the book would let them afford children. ‘Yes, they will,’ he said.

  * * *

  The scream woke him. For a moment he thought he’d dreamed it, or had cried out in his sleep. But the last echo was caught in the hills. Faint as it was, he could feel its intolerable horror, its despair.

  He lay blinking at the sunlight. The white-painted walls shone. Di hadn’t woken; he was glad. The scream throbbed in his brain. Today he must find out what it was.

  After breakfast he told Di he was going into Camside. She was still depressed after completing the book; she looked drained. She didn’t offer to accompany him. She stood at the garden wall, watching him blindly, dazzled by the sun. ‘Be careful driving,’ she called.

  The clump of trees opposite the end of the path was quivering. Was somebody hiding behind the trunks’ Tony frowned at her. ‘Do you feel ?’ but he didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily ?’ anything’ Anything odd?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ But he was wondering whether to tell her when she said, ‘I like this place. Don’t spoil it.’

  He went back to her. ‘What will you do while I’m out?’

  ‘Just stay in the cottage. I want to read through the book. Why are you whispering?’ He smiled at her, shaking his head. The sense of someone watching had faded, though the tree-trunks still quivered.

  Plushy white-and-silver layers of cloud sailed across the blue sky. He drove the fifteen miles to Camside, a slow roller-coaster ride between green quilts spread easily over the hills. Turned earth displayed each shoot on the nearer fields, trees met over the roads and parted again.

  Camside was wholly the colours of rusty sand; similar stone framed the wide glass of the library. Mullioned windows multiplied reflections. Gardens and walls were thick with flowers. A small river coursed beneath a bridge; in the water, sunlight darted incessantly among pebbles. He parked outside a pub, The Wheatsheaf, and walked back. Next to the library stood an odd squat building of the amber stone, a square block full of small windows whose open casements were like griddles filled with panes; over its door a new plastic sign said Camside Observer. The newspaper’s files might be useful. He went in.

  A girl sat behind a low white Swedish desk; the crimson bell of her desk-lamp clanged silently against the white walls, the amber windowsills. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m doing some research into an area near here. Ploughman’s Path. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She was glancing away, looking for help to a middle-aged man who had halted in a doorway behind her desk. ‘Mr. Poole?’ she called.

  ‘We’ve run a few stories about that place,’ the man told Tony. ‘You’ll find them on our files, on microfilm. Next door, in the library.’

  ‘Oh good. Thanks.’ But that might mean hours of searching. ‘Is there anyone here who knows the background?’

  The man frowned, and saw Tony realise that meant Yes. ‘The man who handled the last story is still on our staff,’ he said. ‘But he isn’t here now.’
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  ‘Will he be here later?’

  ‘Yes, probably. No, I’ve no idea when.’ As Tony left he felt the man was simply trying to prevent his colleague from being pestered.

  The library was a long room, spread with sunlight. Sunlight lay dazzling on the glossy tables, cleaved shade among the bookcases; a trolley overflowed with thrillers and romances. Ploughman’s Path’ Oh yes ‘ and the librarian showed him a card file that indexed local personalities, events, areas. She snapped up a card for him, as if it were a Tarot’s answer. Ploughman’s Path: see Victor Hill, Legendry and Customs of the Severn Valley. ‘And there’s something on microfilm,’ she said, but he was anxious to make sure the book was on the shelf.

  It was. It was bound in op-art blues. He carried it to a table; its blues vibrated in the sunlight. The index told him the passage about Ploughman’s Path covered six pages. He riffled hastily past photographs of standing stones, a trough in the binding full of breadcrumbs, a crushed jagged-legged fly. Ploughman’s Path ‘

  ‘Why the area bounding Ploughman’s Path should be dogged by ill luck and tragedy is not known. Folk living in the cottage nearby have sometimes reported hearing screams produced by no visible agency. Despite the similarity of this to banshee legends, no such legend appears to have grown up locally. But Ploughman’s Path, and the area bounding it furthest from the cottage (see map), has been so often visited by tragedy and misfortune that local folk dislike to even mention the name, which they fear will bring bad luck.’

  Furthest from the cottage. Tony relaxed. So long as the book said so, that was all right. And the last line told him why they’d behaved uneasily at the Farmer’s Rest. He read on, his curiosity unmixed now with apprehension.

  But good Lord, the area was unlucky. Rumours of Roman sacrifices were only its earliest horrors. As the history of the place became more accurately documented, the tragedies grew worse. A gallows set up within sight of the cottage, so that the couple living there must watch their seven-year-old daughter hanged for theft; it had taken her hours to die. An old woman accused of witchcraft by gossip, set on fire and left to burn alive on the path. A mute child who’d fallen down an old well: coping-stones had fallen on him, breaking his limbs and hiding him from searchers ‘ years later his skeleton had been found. A baby caught in an animal trap. God, Tony thought. No wonder he’d heard screams.