by Claire Wong
“I’m pretty sure it was his,” she says.
“Thank you,” says Adam. His voice is controlled yet somehow emotional too. I feel brighter at the thought that I made this moment happen.
“Does it still work?” asks Callum.
“Let’s find out,” Adam replies, winding the dial and listening out for the ticking sound. “There we go, like new! I’ll set it to the right time.”
It takes him a minute to open the watch up, but he manages it in spite of the object’s age. The watch face is intact, with Roman numerals all around its edge, and two hands currently pointing in the wrong directions.
“It must be getting late now, and weren’t you supposed to go with Tom to collect some equipment for the party?” says Grace. It is days away, and Diana already has them running her errands.
“So I was,” says Adam, rising to his feet and groaning like an old man as he does. We say our goodbyes, and as soon as Adam and Grace have gone, Callum and I also part ways.
“Right then,” he says, “I should go too.”
“Yes, and me.”
We have little to say to one another when there is no other company present, and we seem to have both silently acknowledged this, so we never seek one another out when the other two are away. I go back to my house empty-handed.
It is peaceful here. Leaves that have come loose drift lightly, catching occasional shafts of sunlight, which cause their colours to shine brilliantly for a few seconds before they fall to the floor. The oak trees all around blaze orange, clutching rich heavy handfuls of acorns. I stand at the doorway of my house and imagine a young Emrys here, seeking refuge in the woods.
I don’t know what kind of man he was, but I know that we are from the same place, and that we both ran away, so I feel I have something in common with this stranger. I wonder why he left and if he ever wanted to come back. I wonder why I have never heard of him. Surely Maebh would have remembered something like that, and told his story to us? I picture him as fairly young, maybe Callum’s age, sitting beside the stream and watching the squirrels chase one another up a tree, while he whittles a piece of wood in the way that Adam did this afternoon.
I sit down in the doorway and look out towards the trees. Well, I think, you and me and Callum – we’ve got a lot in common really. All of us runaways – all of us ending up in these woods.
And then, because not many people know what it is truly like to live alone in a wild place, I stay sitting here for some time in silence, while the oak leaves drift and settle all around.
Chapter two
Llandymna
Ifan sits up and looks outside. It is an overcast day, the sort he hates. But he has decided that this will be the day he gets out of bed. He suspects that he should have gone back to work sooner, but that the combined insistence of his worrying wife and the power of his painkillers to make him drowsy have prevented this.
When he stays still like this he can barely feel his wound with its careful stitches. Instinctively, he prods at it and immediately feels the twinge of agony that tells him he did not dream the whole episode. The pain is proof that all is not right with the world, and Ifan has no intention of letting go of that reminder.
While he is in pain, he can remember, instead of falling into the fog brought about by the drugs. And he wants to remember every detail: the fight, the sight of the knife in Callum’s hand, the news that his attacker had run away, the police’s failure to catch him, and his so-called friends’ betrayal in pressuring him to drop the charges. He needs a clear head to process all this.
Ifan has always considered himself an honest, hardworking sort of man. He has been on the farm all his life, first helping his father and then taking it on with his wife and a few extra workers. He has never had the opportunity to be lazy or to cheat, because you cannot cheat the land or the elements, who are his bosses. Either you work hard or you fail. In return, Ifan has never asked for much, no special treatment or awards, but he has assumed a certain level of respect from his neighbours. Yet when it really matters, the people around him have turned their backs. The police have been nothing short of useless; his friends have mumbled platitudes but done little to help. And now that he has dropped the charges against Callum, he fears what others may be saying.
He shifts his weight so that his arms support him as he swings his legs off the bed and his feet touch the floor. So far, Nia has helped him walk everywhere, but he does not call her this time. He pushes himself up from the bed. As he does, the area around his stitches flares with pain, but Ifan straightens up and waits for the feeling to subside. He will not be beaten by this. He moves to the wardrobe and picks out some clothes to change into. Dressing takes a long time, because it hurts with every stretch to reach a button or pull on a sock. Eventually Ifan stands, looking like himself again. He checks his reflection in the mirror. Now he does not look like a victim any more.
The door swings open and Nia enters carrying a tray.
“I brought you some soup – oh, you’re up! And dressed.”
“I’ve been in bed long enough,” Ifan tells her.
“Are you sure? The nurse will be here to change the dressing later today. I’m sure she’ll say you should still be resting.”
“Nothing good ever came from sitting around doing nothing,” Ifan mutters as he pushes past her and marches downstairs, leaving her still holding the tray.
Rhiannon
I have been laughing all day – we all have. I sit cross-legged and look up, noticing that the fallen leaves mean I can now see more of the sky. This is what freedom is: not the space around you or no rules restricting you; it is being able to throw back your head and laugh out of happiness, and not worry about what anyone else thinks. Grace has built a small fire at the centre of the clearing so that we can stay here and be warm rather than trouble with the walk to Callum’s shelter. I extend my arms towards it and warm the palms of my hands against its quiet crackling, entranced by the sparks that drift upward and then transform, mid-air, into grey ash. Adam is carving something out of a small piece of wood again. It’s starting to take shape and I think it might be some kind of bird. I wonder if it will be Lleu. I haven’t seen him since my birthday, though I thought once I saw the shape of a hawk flying away between the trees. But I knew he wouldn’t stay forever.
“You know, I think you may have started a new trend in leaving the village,” jokes Callum.
“If anyone else leaves, it will make more sense to move those remaining into the forest and send the runaways back to the village, where there is more room!” I say. I glance over to Adam and Grace. I know that their father ran away, but so far they have said nothing more about him, and I think it best not to ask. If they ever want to explain, I expect they will.
“But you could go back,” says Callum. “I can’t.”
“What makes you think I can go back?” I ask, knowing not to argue with him over whether he can return. We have all given up on that by now. Callum clearly hates living out in the woods: he complains constantly of being cold, hungry, and uncomfortable, but none of that is enough to drive him back to Llandymna.
“You never injured anybody.”
I have been thinking this over for a couple of days, but only now do I feel ready to articulate it. “Not like you did, no. But I was unkind to a lot of people. I feel sick just thinking about some of the things I said.”
“People can forgive each other far worse things,” says Grace. I expected a sterner response, something that affirmed just how much I have to regret. When I lived in Llandymna, I used to swoop in on people’s imperfections and rail against them. I wanted everything to be better than what I saw around me, but I must have been unbearable company because of it. No one here reprimands me for it though. Perhaps they sense I need no further rebuke to wish I could change the past. Perhaps even this revelation is their doing.
With Grace’s gentle
ness and Adam’s unshakable good cheer, these two balance one another out. There is something about them that I find hard to express. It’s the effect of their company. Being around them seems to make Callum calmer and more considerate towards others, a definite improvement in my opinion. And I find that when they are in the forest, I feel able to face what lies outside my fairy tales. I feel maybe there’s some good for me to do in the real world after all. Yet they seem completely unaware of what they’re doing every time they come and spend an hour or two with us. It’s as if their ordinary lives simply happen to dispense goodness to the people they encounter, and none of it is deliberate or premeditated. That’s how I shall describe them: accidentally wonderful.
As I think over what Callum has just said, I realize that technically it is true. On any given morning, I could wake up and resolve that this is the day on which I shall make the walk up the hill and go back to the people I left. I wouldn’t have to fear the same kind of punishment that might face Callum if he were to attempt the same thing. And yet there would be some kind of retribution waiting for me as I faced those people again, and I fear it would be humiliating. Some days I wonder if I would like to go back: to be among friends and family again; to make amends for some of the cruel and childish things I said when I was last there; to see if I could repair some of the relationships I left behind. At other times I think that life is much simpler here, and more beautiful in some ways. Often the truth is that I do not know if I would be able to find the strength to leave the simplicity of a solitary life for all the complexities of community, where apologizing and considering the feelings of others would be necessary. I wonder if I could be trusted to do what’s right in those surroundings.
“I brought some coffee for us to brew, but it looks like we’re out of water,” says Grace, checking the bottles. “Callum, can you pass me the flask from my rucksack over there? There might be some left in there.”
Callum reaches into the bag and pulls out a metal flask. He shakes it close to his ear.
“Sounds empty to me. Here, you check it.” He throws the flask, but misses his aim and hits Adam instead. “Woah! That went wrong.”
The impact causes Adam’s hand to slip, and he draws the knife across his palm instead of the small wooden animal he has been carving. He closes his hand into a fist, but not quickly enough to stop the rest of us seeing the dark red line of blood.
“Let me see that,” says Grace.
“It’s fine,” Adam insists as she examines the cut. He is as off-hand and careless as people always think they should be about this sort of thing, but I know that even a small scratch can get infected and become more serious.
“You ought to do something about that,” I say.
“No need,” he assures me.
“Grace, will you please tell him?” I ask, trying not to sound annoyed or impatient.
“It’s quite deep, and the knife wasn’t clean. You should at least wash it. Except, of course, we’ve just established there’s no water left.”
Adam groans at the thought of walking all the way back to the stream by Callum’s shelter, or making the treacherous climb down Owl’s Ledge. Callum looks at me, hoping that I will be either horrified or disgusted by the sight of blood. Obviously, I am not.
“Something like plantain would be good too,” Grace adds, “for cleaning the wound so it doesn’t get infected.”
“I know where we can find some,” I say suddenly, “and it’s right next to the stream.”
For an instant I wonder if I should regret saying this, but we seem to be already walking, quite quickly, towards my land, with me leading the way.
“Sorry about that,” says Callum, as he strides alongside the others.
Adam shakes his head. “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he says.
Here we are, at one of the gaps in the boundary.
“There’s no way through,” says Callum. “Can we go around?”
“The plantain’s the other side of these brambles,” I say, “and there are ways in, if you know where to look.”
I go to one of the gaps and pull back a curtain of ivy that conceals the entrance. I cross through first, and they follow, turning sideways to fit through the space.
“Perfect,” says Grace, seeing the stream before us flanked by shallower banks than elsewhere in the wood. Adam washes the cut in the stream until any traces of rust or splinters from the knife are gone. I point Grace towards the clump of plantain next to my house, and she picks a handful of the leaves.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask.
“A bowl – and do you have any bandages left in the box I brought you?”
“There’s still one,” I say, and I go to fetch it, along with my cooking pan, which will hopefully do in place of a bowl. Grace starts to crush up the leaves in the pan, mixing them with her hands until they form a paste. She then gets Adam to apply it to the wound, and winds the bandage over the top.
“This will help it heal faster,” she says. Sometimes I think Grace would be much better at living my life than I am.
“Is that your house?” asks Callum, pointing past me to the ruins of the old mill house. A pile of firewood sits by the doorway. My staff leans against the wall. It looks almost homely. I nod, and he looks impressed.
“Was it there when you arrived?”
“No, the sparrows built it for me,” I say solemnly. It takes him a moment to be certain that I am joking.
“A house in the forest,” Grace murmurs. She and Adam both stare at my house as if it is something out of a dream: familiar and yet impossible. They must have made the connection that this is the place where I found Emrys’s lost pocket watch.
They are here. There are people sitting by the stream, commenting on my house. It’s strange that I don’t mind as much as I thought I would. After all, the whole point of the fence was to keep the world away from me. But lately I haven’t worried so much about checking it for damage and repairing the gaps. Most of the people in the woods these days don’t mean me any harm.
I watch as Callum stands behind Adam and visibly debates with himself over whether or not to push him into the water. He is just about to, when Adam moves aside, completely oblivious to the scheming that has taken place, and Callum has to leap forwards to avoid hitting the water. As I laugh at him, Adam seems to be looking at me seriously.
“How did you get those marks on your arm?” he asks quietly, so that Callum, still staggering to regain his balance, does not overhear. I have to look down to see what he means. The remains of claw marks criss-cross over my skin, leaving thin pink lines that I have neglected to bandage lately. I have managed very well so far in ensuring that nobody notices the cuts, and had even forgotten them myself until now. I expect it is my own fault for turning his thoughts towards injuries of various kinds. I explain that the scratches are due to Lleu, but they are healing well now that he has disappeared. Adam nods, accepting this answer almost entirely.
I feel I ought to fetch my guests something to eat, so I run into my house and put together a selection of what I have, which feels meagre now that I have to put it in front of friends. Yet when I emerge and offer them crab apples and hazelnuts they thank me as heartily as if I had cooked a Sunday roast for them. Even Callum seems appreciative. I think the realization that he was wrong to throw the flask has silenced his usual sarcasm.
“What’s the time?” asks Grace. “We need to be back by three to help Tom and the others start setting up the church hall.”
“Of course,” says Adam. “Only a day to go until the big event now.” He takes out the pocket watch and checks it. It is just after two o’clock.
“Is that Diana’s birthday you’re talking about?” asks Callum.
“Yes,” says Adam. He seems reluctant to put away the watch, as if it might not stay in his pocket if he lets it out of his sight.
“Do you
miss him?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Your dad,” I say, with a nod to the watch.
“Yes,” he replies. “Reckon I will for a long time too.”
“Some days are easier than others,” Grace adds.
“Like you think you’re doing fine for a while, but then sometimes it hits you again, and you wonder if you were just so distracted that you forgot to feel sad?” I say.
“Yes, exactly like that,” says Grace.
“I think it takes longer than anyone realizes, to be OK again after you lose someone,” I say, “and everyone stops asking how you are or thinking that you might still be grieving long before you stop.”
“I think you are probably right,” says Grace.
“Do you still miss your mother?” asks Adam. Grace gives him a sharp look, the only time I have ever seen that kind of exchange between them, as if she thinks he is being insensitive. But the truth is, I am glad to be asked this question. Most people are too afraid of the answer. Of course, now I have to decide what to say. Should I reassure them that it is all right; that I am never sad about this any more? Should I smile graciously, in the way that admirably tragic women always do when they are reminded of loss? I almost wish I were able to, but if these people are half as accepting as I think they are, then I need to respond more honestly.
“Yes,” I say, with neither false lightness nor melodramatic gloom. “Not every day. I was very young at the time.”
I suddenly realize that I want to tell somebody what I can remember. It is a story I have never told before, because of course I grew up surrounded by people who already knew it. Diana was there, at the funeral and the aftermath, and she did not need to hear my version of events. But maybe it’s because I have never told this story that I have spent years replacing it with others.
