“Thank you,” he said again, this time in a louder, clearer voice.
Ansel stepped out and saw that the snow had stopped some time ago. The landscape was, truly, amazing in its wintry cloak, and Ansel moved on with his mind on his main goal. As he walked around the quiet garden, he glanced back at Pryor House and took in as many details as he could, hoping to sear them in his memory, till he eventually reached the rear.
He turned and looked at the master’s bedroom windows. One had been opened, and Miss Peveler stood within, watching him with a faint smile. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and Ansel set his bag down and raised a hand in farewell, smiling in turn. The lady nodded, looking as aristocratic and stern as ever, though there certainly was no denying the sense of regret and longing in her air.
No pity, Ansel Tunnicliffe. Move on with your life. Screw up that courage. Fight for what you need. Love with all you’ve got.
He nodded in answer. “I will.”
He picked up his bag, turned around, and walked right into the wood, following the trail he knew Cedric had always taken. He never looked back, either, but he knew Miss Peveler would’ve wanted him to carry on and not linger. She was meant, perhaps, to see her latest child leave the nest, follow his progress through the leafless trees till she couldn’t see him anymore. Then her debt for this year would be paid, and she’d be allowed her rest till next time.
And as for his father…
“See what…you’ve done to me.”
Ansel stumbled to a halt and looked around.
Yes, there he was—there it was. Mr. Tunnicliffe standing amid the other trees, apparently turning into one of them. The monster’s tattered cloak had vanished. In fact, it seemed to have mutated into a new layer of bark because, rather than black, rotting wood that crawled with worms, the monster’s exterior was newer-looking and fresher.
“I didn’t do that to you,” Ansel replied, his voice calm. Fear had long gone from him at the sight of his father’s twisted specter. “You’ve done this to yourself.”
The monster stood in one spot, and while it tried to move toward Ansel, its roots had grown, it seemed, and it couldn’t budge. In fact, it looked more fully formed as a tree and not an abomination of one. Yes, its branches still creaked and swayed as it tried to reach out for Ansel, but the movements were a great deal more limited and stiff. Even the face, though still distinguishable, was now more wood than human.
“And here you are…abandoning your own father…while you run around the countryside, chasing…after that boy like the…whore you are.”
The monster’s voice had also changed, the tone more muted, the words barely intelligible. It really did sound as though it communicated through wood rubbing sluggishly against wood.
“I feel sorry for you, Papa. I don’t know why you turned out this way, but I do know I deserve better than what you’ve done to me.”
“Ungrateful…little shit…”
The monster struggled a little more, gurgled something again, and eventually it stopped moving and communicating. For a moment, Ansel stood there, watching and waiting, but nothing else happened. He was staring at a tree, plain and simple.
And yet…
Frowning, Ansel cautiously walked forward and then stopped a few feet away from the tree. Yes, there it was—his father’s face, clearly formed in the wood, and frozen in an expression of rage and hate. Ansel shuddered as he stepped back, wondering if this was truly nothing more than another one of those magical things that could only happen in Miss Peveler’s twilight world.
A quiet nagging urged him to walk up to a random tree nearby—and then another and then another. Each time Ansel observed the tree long and hard, sometimes walking around it to find what he was looking for. And before long, he forced himself to stop and glance around, wide-eyed and shivering.
Every tree had a face—male or female, it didn’t matter. And every face was forever captured in an expression of intense, negative emotion. Anger, bitterness, sadness, despair—it was a woodland made of trees that had once been human. In the silence of the winter season, Ansel also realized that, if he were to hold his breath and listen really hard, he could hear very faint sounds—low groans and moans—coming from the trees. They were too soft and distant, though, for anyone to hear even with some effort, but they were definitely there. In the spring and summer, with the wind and the birds everywhere, those sounds would easily vanish. Ansel, skin prickling, could think of nothing else but those people through the centuries who’d hurt all those youths Miss Peveler had taken in for healing.
Were these people simply represented in that strange wood? Or were they truly there, punished as Nature could only punish those who’d inflamed her? She never forgave, he knew, and she never forgot. Maybe those people had died first and, rather than allow their souls to rest, Nature had cursed them to spend eternity in a wood, damned to watch the days and the seasons go by with no hope for rest. Or their souls were simply claimed, dead or alive, by a force whose power went beyond all reckoning and then forever fixed in this state.
“And now Papa’s one of them,” he said under his breath, looking in the direction where his tree-father now stood.
Ansel, now completely unnerved, hurried back to his path, trusting on the previous trail of prints he’d made in the snow and mentally charting a general direction to take. He trudged forward, slowly calming down with his own thoughts even as he passed an occasional tree that had a terrifying face clearly staring at him with features contorted.
He didn’t know how long it took him, but he eventually spotted the final line of trees. There was also something green beyond the snow, but it was too far for him to distinguish clearly. All the same, it buoyed his mood and made his heart pound. He didn’t even know he was grinning till he stepped clear of the final trees and found himself standing on the edge of a sheep meadow.
“Wait…”
Ansel glanced back and stared at the wood behind him. Yes, it was still there, but the snow had disappeared, and nothing but lush grass and wildflowers carpeted the ground between them and among their roots. They also barely sprouted any leaves, looking quite desolate amid so much life. The trees in surrounding areas were beautiful and full, and Ansel wondered what local residents thought of this strange woodland.
“It’s rumored to be a cursed wood,” a voice piped up, and Ansel whirled around to find a young man standing nearby, regarding him curiously. Beside him sat a dog—an old one, it seemed, but apparently quite active and alert still, judging from its eager expression and happily wagging tail.
“I’m sorry?” Ansel stammered, coloring, when he realized who this was.
Cedric nodded at the wood behind Ansel. “None of the trees grow leaves the way most others do. You can see. But there’s really nothing to be afraid of. People have wandered through the wood before, and none had gotten lost or had reported anything mysterious.” Cedric grinned, shrugging. “It’s a wonderful place for a quiet stroll, though. I sometimes go there with my sisters or my dog. The trees are wide apart, and you can run without trouble.”
Ansel just listened, bug-eyed, and nodded. His tongue had fused itself to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t get himself to speak a single word to Cedric. He simply stood there, mortified into silence, his bag in one hand, his poetry and music still pressed tightly against his chest. What did one do when such a moment finally came, especially after all those dreams and daydreams?
“Oh. Oh, lord, I’m so sorry,” Cedric said, laughing and coloring. He stepped forward, offering a hand. “I’m Cedric Hill.”
Ansel swallowed and set down his bag before gingerly taking hold of the hand he’d longed to touch. “I’m Ansel Tunnicliffe,” he said, giving Cedric’s hand a quick shake and almost catching his breath when he noticed Cedric not releasing his hand right away.
In fact, Cedric was looking at him in a way that made his gut tighten painfully. “I’m glad you came,” Cedric said, dropping his voice to a very inti
mate volume, his expression earnest and intense. “I’ve never placed much stock in dreams, but when I dream of the same person again and again despite not meeting him before, I know there’s a good deal more to it than what everyone else would dismiss as fanciful thinking.” He cleared his throat. “Would you—would you think it mad if I were to say that I’d been—told—to come here today?”
“What, by a dream?”
“It might as well be. More like a voice, whispering in my ear—can’t say if it was a man or a woman. I wish I could say more, but…” Cedric shrugged, looking terribly sheepish. “I couldn’t help it. It promised me you’d be here, at last.”
Ansel grinned, almost laughing. Would he dare tell Cedric that he’d only dreamed of the other boy once but had actively—and shamelessly—daydreamed about him several times in Pryor House? In the end, he decided not to, seeing as how his story would only complicate matters. Something deep in him had also assured him it was for the best, that even his predecessors had kept their adventures sacred and hidden. He was bound to say that he’d been taken in by a generous benefactress for a brief time—and all of that spoken in general terms. It was a very common thing to happen to many less fortunate souls, and no one would ever suspect the more otherworldly nature of his brief residence in Pryor House.
“I hope you don’t regret the reality when compared to those dreams,” Ansel said instead, again mortified, but this time because of his shocking audacity.
Cedric laughed quietly. “I’d be mad if I did.”
Epilogue
“It’s a colorful cluster of trees.”
Ansel shrugged, grinning. “I happen to like them.”
“Oh, do you, now?” Cedric chuckled beside him. “I’ve seen other clusters of trees that look more impressive than this one. This looks—a little forlorn, if you know what I mean.”
“I know. It does. I suppose that’s what draws me to it.”
“Ah—I suppose I should flatter myself into thinking that my dreams of you had something to do with your fascination.”
“You’re quite welcome to flatter yourself all day, every day, Cedric Hill.”
He glanced at Cedric, who returned his look with a fond, loving smile before turning to regard the trees again. He took Cedric’s hand in his own and gave it a squeeze. True to form, Cedric—in an almost involuntary reaction—raised their joined hands, turned them over, and pressed a kiss against Ansel’s knuckles. And all that without breaking his focused gaze on the trees before them. Ansel had always thought of that as a remarkable skill of Cedric’s.
The two stood before a small group of maple trees. Surrounded by a wide, grassy expanse whose northern border led to the strange wood, the trees marked the spot where Pryor House had stood. It had been three years since Ansel left Miss Peveler’s immortal home, and it had also been his tradition to return to that same spot once a season, or at least as often as he could manage, given his school work and his part-time apprenticeship—as he’d always called it—with an illness-prone horticulture enthusiast.
Perhaps the most difficult visit he’d try to make came a month before Christmas, when the weather turned bitter and unfriendly. It wasn’t the chill that kept him away, however; it was that he couldn’t find the end of the cursed wood whenever he tried to reach Pryor House that way. He’d tried to walk around the wood, but he’d always—always—be caught in a horrible snowstorm, and he’d be forced to retreat. No, he was simply not allowed to see Pryor House when he knew Miss Peveler had been brought back from the grave, looking after a new boy or girl. After two years of hopeless and pointless attempts, Ansel admitted defeat and let things go, but at least he’d utter a quiet prayer for the well-being of the new boy or girl as well as for the rest of Miss Peveler’s soul, whenever that might be. Nature was bound to take pity someday, but one could never tell with these great, unknown, and terrifying forces.
Ansel had kept his interest in plants and flowers alive, and in fact found his passion deepening. While he only assisted his employer with light tasks, he was still an eager student and listened with keen interest in what the gentleman, a Dr. Margrave, had to say in answer to his questions. Dr. Margrave had been a professor before illness ravaged his health and forced him to retire; apparently having a new, enthusiastic boy for his assistant helped alleviate his loneliness and his restlessness at not being in a classroom situation.
Ansel had discovered Dr. Margrave by accident and after a few inquiries made after he’d settled in at a small boarding house for a handful of poor but promising orphaned boys. It had served—and continued to serve—as a private school of sorts to its residents, charitable donations from wealthy patrons helping clothe and feed the students and guarantee its tutors a small but decent stipend. Ansel had found the other boys’ hunger for knowledge and improvement infectious, and during his free hours, he’d spend time with Cedric, usually wandering the countryside for hours on end.
It was wonderfully idyllic.
Just like the landscapes in Pryor House.
And Ansel would allow a secretive little smile to crease his face whenever he wondered what kind of landscape had been magically painted with him and Cedric in it. Most likely walking hand-in-hand through the trees or standing in the middle of a meadow, observing the hills beyond or random sheep that grazed everywhere. Maybe they’d be in each other’s arms among the roots of an old, lush tree, kissing or simply holding each other close.
“And now you’re blushing.”
Ansel blinked. He continued to stare at the cluster of maple trees, knowing how red his face must be. He felt his hand raised and his knuckles kissed again, and he sighed.
“Just thinking,” he said.
“I can see that. Apparently something awfully saucy.”
“How can you expect mere flesh and blood not to think of anything saucy when you’re next to him?”
Cedric laughed, tugging him close. He turned Ansel to face him, their arms wrapped comfortably around each other, their faces a mere handful of inches shy of a kiss.
“I’m on holiday from university,” Cedric chided. “And you’re making me spend my time staring at maple trees. I see opportunity getting wasted.”
“I can’t help it,” Ansel replied. “I’m destined to work with plants.”
“Then enjoy the benefit of both worlds, Mr. Tunnicliffe, because I refuse to be denied.”
With a burst of bright, bubbly laughter, Cedric loosened his hold but grasped one of Ansel’s hands in his. Still laughing, he dragged Ansel toward the small cluster of maple trees, found a nice, open area among them, and promptly lay down, pulling Ansel onto the grass.
They kissed for a while, the summer breeze soothing away the warmth of the late morning. When they broke for a quick respite, Cedric rolled himself on top of Ansel. Gazing at him with the summer sun almost directly above made Ansel’s heart clench the way it always did when they were intimate like this.
Cedric also had a sweet habit of stroking Ansel’s face or hair whenever Cedric held him close. It was soothing, and perhaps the most remarkable thing about it was how Cedric tended to do this whenever Ansel’s doubts resurfaced—doubts brought about by shadows of his past, his father’s insults and sneers. There’d been a couple of times when a very vivid memory of his father hitting him suddenly surfaced because Ansel took to picturing himself a successful adult someday. That memory almost brought him to tears even though Ansel had already mastered control of his emotions. And yet, without even asking what the trouble was or if something dark had just affected Ansel’s mood, there was Cedric, stroking his hair and pressing a kiss on his cheek.
As if he knew because someone—something—had urged him to reach out and comfort Ansel even before Ansel could show physical expressions of his distress.
“Lord, don’t tell me you’re daydreaming again,” Cedric said, his words breaking up Ansel’s thoughts. “I’m directly on top of you, and you’re still daydreaming? You’re hopeless.”
“I’m enjoying
the moment, blockhead,” Ansel replied, giggling when Cedric took to lightly tickling his sides. “Stop it! No, I’m telling you the truth.” Cedric relented with a dramatic sigh, and he shifted his weight in order to bracket Ansel’s head with his hands as he held himself up by his elbows—and Ansel’s lower half. It was Ansel’s turn to touch Cedric’s face, now practically drowning in wonder. “Counting my blessings—it isn’t hard to do right now.”
“I’ll admit, there’s something terribly magical about these trees.” Cedric paused, hesitating, as he appeared to think over what to say next. “It’s like—I sense protection. I don’t know why, and it’s likely because we’re surrounded by trees, but I’ve never felt the same thing when we’re together like this in the wood or elsewhere, surrounded by other trees.”
Ansel grinned. “You sound mad.”
“I do, don’t I? I can’t help it, though. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s not frightening. Just—comforting. Protective, absolutely—as if nothing can ever go wrong with us when we’re here.”
“Are your dreams affecting you again?”
Cedric hesitated, but when he spoke again, he smiled shyly. “I think they always will. Three times, Ansel—I dreamed of coming here three times, and each time I could see you in my head, watching me from some place I couldn’t physically see.”
Yes, the first dream was of Cedric playing in the snow with his sister. The second was of him and his beloved dog, Willie. The third was the dream that’d impressed itself onto his mind—so much so he’d been haunted by it even in his waking hours. The third dream was of him desperately seeking out Ansel. He couldn’t see the other boy, though, even if he knew in his heart that Ansel was really there, trying to reach out to him as well. It was as if, Cedric had said a while back when he’d first confessed his dreams, Ansel was an otherworldly creature. Or that he was a boy who’d been trapped in a world that mortals couldn’t see. That little group of maple trees seemed to hide a curious secret, and in Cedric’s dreams, while he could only see nothing but the trees, his mind had somehow espied what truly lay behind them, protected by their branches, their leaves, their indeterminate age.
Ansel of Pryor House Page 12
