It's the time of night for nightingales. All through the year, no matter how close dawn seems, the nightingales start singing around half three in the morning. At high summer, this time of the year, it's not as disconcerting as it is in, say, December. But living on the edge of the wood means the sounds and spirits of the forest creep in all the time.
Tonight we had a songbirdcome to visit us. I do not know how she arrived in the kitchen, but she was a little song thrush, terrified and seeking refuge in any corner she could get into. In the end, it took two of us and her fear of the cat to get her back out into the wood where she belonged. She was invisible from the moment she left the lit kitchen, gone to roost and sing again tomorrow, gone to be a little piece of a great riddle.
At this time of year, full night lasts only about five and a half hours, and I have spent it all watching the forest from my window, watching the changing wind and light flow across the meadow. It is a night for long thinking. I'm not as young as I used to be, and when the forest creeps in, it gets me right in my bones. Summer is not the time to think on death, but I do, more and more often, consider that one day I will walk into the wood and just not come back. Forty-five years it's been since I first woke here, and I do not yet know who'll be there to walk with me when I go. I think the night will be longer than this, though. Mary said she felt her death coming for a decade. And all this year, I've felt those little stirrings, that wondering what it will be like, how it will feel to melt into the wood, and how I will bear to join another woman's hand to my smith and bid him goodbye for perhaps the last time.
We do not know how long a shadow we cast over the wood when we enter it for the last time. We all ask, 'Will I be remembered?' and we all hope for the answer we want to hear.
Only just shy of four in the morning, and it is already light enough to see folk on the meadow. They never sleep, or if they do it's only so their betrotheds can cheerfully take tokens from them to prove how strong the force of virginity is. I am an old woman now, but I feel just as much like dancing on that meadow this morning as I did when I first walked on to it fifty years ago. We're never ready for what happens next. The older we get, the more real the past seems, and that's true here in a way it's not in other places, I think.
The sun will burn away the dew by six, and I will let little Annie open the pub for me. And I'm sorry, my dearest, but I have no desire to dream any more tonight. I'll leave the gate latched, and I'll sleep until noon. Come downstairs and complain about my bones, I will, and then tomorrow night, tomorrow night I'll dream of you and not night birds, or death, or who will take me into the wood ten years from now. I'll shut my curtains against the meadow, I will, and I'll sleep until noon.
29 June 2008
Gamekeeper
Lucy, only barely sixteen, with her nut brown curls and dark and roving eye, her father's joy and the thorn in her mother's side, took it upon herself to travel across the forest for a basket of apples.
'I can send the maid,' her mother said.
'You'll bring me some nice, juicy red ones?' her father asked.
No more was said, but Lucy's mother closed the door behind her and vanished to the kitchen. Lucy's father returned to his meeting with the estate's caretaker, thinking ahead to the apples that would sweeten his mood after the settling of the accounts was done.
Crisp autumn was just upon the wood, the beginning of apple season. Lucy waited every year for apple season to begin: it meant crepes and tarts and chutneys, and cider next year. The wood was no obstacle; she'd walked it all her life, alone or not. Her father kept the big house above the wood, and all the folk around the wood gave some of their harvest to him. The first apples were his favourite bounty.
All the paths opened to her like storybooks. Lucy paced the long walk down the pathways of the west wood, past the pub and the hunting lodge, down through the east wood, peppered with little farmhouses and a traveller's camp she must mention to her father, then crossed the Roman road to the apple orchard, where she let the woodsman and his wife keep her for new bread with butter and a cup of milk.
'Dusk's coming,' said the woodsman. 'You'd best start back.' He filled her basket and promised more for her father before the week was out. 'These are special, just for you.'
Lucy had the breeding to blush, and the woodsman's wife laughed at her. 'You'll be all grown up soon,' the woodsman's wife said. 'Sooner than you think.'
It is always those little things that happen moments before everything changes that we remember. Lucy laughed with the woodsman's wife and replied, 'I'll always be a girl in the woods.' Only later might she reflect and wonder if the wind shifted then, or the woodsman's wife frowned, just a bit. But not then.
Autumn creeps up on the forest with sideways slanting light and a good dose of early dusk. Evenings seem to shorten more sharply as the harvest deepens, and so Lucy found herself just crossing the meadow, just passing the hunting lodge, as the wood began to blur into evening. A single light twinkled in the hunting lodge.
'And who's this pretty fair miss?'
Lucy turned toward the voice, secure in the wood and the meadow. He was tall, taller than she was anyway, and the badge on his cloak named him an agent of the King. 'Lucy.'
'Lucy, you are a dainty young thing, aren't you? Twice as sweet as those apples you're carrying, I'm sure.'
Lucy sniffed. 'I am also Sir Harold's daughter. He keeps the house above the wood.'
Understanding dawned in the gruff gamekeeper's face. 'Ah,' he said. 'No wonder you are so bold; these are nearly your woods. Of course, the law forbids me from possessing the daughter of a nobleman.'
He was tall, Lucy thought. Tall in a rustic, woodsy sort of way. And he kept the hunting lodge for the king; he was no factor or priest. He must be some servant or lackey, barely above a poacher. What came over her then, she never could understand. 'Now, my dear good man,' she said. 'Do not be perplexed. Suppose we play a riddle game.'
'A riddle game?' The gamekeeper removed his hat and ran one very large hand through his cropped but still curly hair. 'What sort of riddle game would that be?'
Was there an edge to his voice? Lucy felt the moon rise somehow. She felt the wind all through her body. 'Suppose,' she said, 'I ask you six questions. If you answer all six of my questions correctly, then you may have a chance with me. Choose not to play, or answer even one incorrectly, and you'll see me again only in broad daylight and only accompanied by one of my father's men.'
In the dimming light, the gamekeeper smiled. 'It would be foolish, then, to refuse to play, wouldn't it? As this is my only chance.' He led her to a bench at the edge of the meadow. 'Sit down, then, and let's begin. But first let me tell you that I am Captain Wedderburn. If I win this riddle game, you may learn my Christian name. For now, you may call me 'sir'.'
'Very well, sir.' Lucy chuckled at the thought of an artless fellow like this winning a riddle game with the daughter of a knight. It was funny to say 'sir' to such a man. 'I will ask the first question.'
Captain Wedderburn nodded gravely, that smile still flickering across his face in the dimming light. 'By all means,' he said.
'What,' asked Lucy, as if she owned the forest and all the land beyond, 'is rounder than a ring?'
'Mm,' replied the gamekeeper. 'This is an old riddle, and I know the answer. The earth is rounder than a ring!'
Lucy held up one finger. 'That's one right,' she said, 'but you still have five to answer. Second question: what is higher than a tree?'
The gamekeeper shook his head. 'You insult me, my pretty fair miss. Heaven is higher than a tree.'
Lucy's cheeks burned. Two questions right. Perhaps the gamekeeper was not as simple as she'd thought. 'These are the riddles my mother taught me,' she countered.
The gamekeeper held his tongue and gestured for her to proceed.
With two fingers now aloft, Lucy asked, 'What is worse than a woman's curse?' Around them, the night seemed to close in, sounds fell away, and not even the songbirds scolded.
'Oh, pretty girl,' whispered the gamekeeper. 'Only the devil is worse than a woman's curse.'
How soft his voice was. Lucy felt warm and cold at the same time. There was time, she thought vaguely, time to jump up and throw all the apples at this strange, knowing man, time to flee into the forest and take the little paths through the undergrowth, time to run. At the same time, she felt the next question on the tip of her tongue. It was like a dance now, like a phrase she had to say, like a prayer response at mass, written into her heart. 'What is deeper than the sea?'
Did the gamekeeper's smile soften? Was there more to him now than a man playing a game with a pretty girl? The fourth question, now. If he got that one right, he was on the winning side. 'Hell is deeper than the sea, miss. Hell is deeper than the sea.'
Lucy panicked. 'Which bird sings first?' she blurted out. 'And-- and, which one sings best, as well?'
The gamekeeper chuckled. 'That is really two questions,' he said. 'But we will pretend, if you like, that it is only one.' He brushed his finger across her cheek. 'You are such a beautiful girl,' he said. 'The lark sings first, but I think the thrush sings best.'
The realisation that she would lose this game came to Lucy, gently and with finality. It came to her in the slow way the sixth question formed in her head, the unfamiliar pleasure of that warm, strong finger upon her face. 'Where does the dew first fall?' she asked. She was unable to stop herself from asking.
'The dew falls in many places,' replied the gamekeeper. 'But the only place it is sure to reach and sink in, its only true destination, is the earth itself.' He took both her hands. 'Now stand up for me, sweet girl.'
Lucy stood up, leaving the basket of apples on the bench.
'Let me take those for you,' said the Captain solicitiously. 'Here, take my other hand.' He led her into the hunting lodge by the hand, then slipped a hand around her waist as they went up the stairs. 'We wouldn't want you to fall.'
Down the hall and into a large bedroom he led her. 'Go on and lie next to the wall,' he said. The bed was made of soft down, a bed for a nobleman or a king. He placed the basket of apples on a table by the small window, and he barred the door. And one by one, he gave her only the sweetest apples, until she was full and sleepy, and then he pulled her into his arms and whispered his name into her ear.
Night fell over the wood, a harvest night with a huge, round moon and the promise of grain and more apples, just days away. A mile to the west, Lucy's father paced the floor, anxious for his daughter and his apples, while his wife accepted with resignation why she'd suddenly remembered the riddle game.
'I can send the maid,' her mother said.
'You'll bring me some nice, juicy red ones?' her father asked.
No more was said, but Lucy's mother closed the door behind her and vanished to the kitchen. Lucy's father returned to his meeting with the estate's caretaker, thinking ahead to the apples that would sweeten his mood after the settling of the accounts was done.
Crisp autumn was just upon the wood, the beginning of apple season. Lucy waited every year for apple season to begin: it meant crepes and tarts and chutneys, and cider next year. The wood was no obstacle; she'd walked it all her life, alone or not. Her father kept the big house above the wood, and all the folk around the wood gave some of their harvest to him. The first apples were his favourite bounty.
All the paths opened to her like storybooks. Lucy paced the long walk down the pathways of the west wood, past the pub and the hunting lodge, down through the east wood, peppered with little farmhouses and a traveller's camp she must mention to her father, then crossed the Roman road to the apple orchard, where she let the woodsman and his wife keep her for new bread with butter and a cup of milk.
'Dusk's coming,' said the woodsman. 'You'd best start back.' He filled her basket and promised more for her father before the week was out. 'These are special, just for you.'
Lucy had the breeding to blush, and the woodsman's wife laughed at her. 'You'll be all grown up soon,' the woodsman's wife said. 'Sooner than you think.'
It is always those little things that happen moments before everything changes that we remember. Lucy laughed with the woodsman's wife and replied, 'I'll always be a girl in the woods.' Only later might she reflect and wonder if the wind shifted then, or the woodsman's wife frowned, just a bit. But not then.
Autumn creeps up on the forest with sideways slanting light and a good dose of early dusk. Evenings seem to shorten more sharply as the harvest deepens, and so Lucy found herself just crossing the meadow, just passing the hunting lodge, as the wood began to blur into evening. A single light twinkled in the hunting lodge.
'And who's this pretty fair miss?'
Lucy turned toward the voice, secure in the wood and the meadow. He was tall, taller than she was anyway, and the badge on his cloak named him an agent of the King. 'Lucy.'
'Lucy, you are a dainty young thing, aren't you? Twice as sweet as those apples you're carrying, I'm sure.'
Lucy sniffed. 'I am also Sir Harold's daughter. He keeps the house above the wood.'
Understanding dawned in the gruff gamekeeper's face. 'Ah,' he said. 'No wonder you are so bold; these are nearly your woods. Of course, the law forbids me from possessing the daughter of a nobleman.'
He was tall, Lucy thought. Tall in a rustic, woodsy sort of way. And he kept the hunting lodge for the king; he was no factor or priest. He must be some servant or lackey, barely above a poacher. What came over her then, she never could understand. 'Now, my dear good man,' she said. 'Do not be perplexed. Suppose we play a riddle game.'
'A riddle game?' The gamekeeper removed his hat and ran one very large hand through his cropped but still curly hair. 'What sort of riddle game would that be?'
Was there an edge to his voice? Lucy felt the moon rise somehow. She felt the wind all through her body. 'Suppose,' she said, 'I ask you six questions. If you answer all six of my questions correctly, then you may have a chance with me. Choose not to play, or answer even one incorrectly, and you'll see me again only in broad daylight and only accompanied by one of my father's men.'
In the dimming light, the gamekeeper smiled. 'It would be foolish, then, to refuse to play, wouldn't it? As this is my only chance.' He led her to a bench at the edge of the meadow. 'Sit down, then, and let's begin. But first let me tell you that I am Captain Wedderburn. If I win this riddle game, you may learn my Christian name. For now, you may call me 'sir'.'
'Very well, sir.' Lucy chuckled at the thought of an artless fellow like this winning a riddle game with the daughter of a knight. It was funny to say 'sir' to such a man. 'I will ask the first question.'
Captain Wedderburn nodded gravely, that smile still flickering across his face in the dimming light. 'By all means,' he said.
'What,' asked Lucy, as if she owned the forest and all the land beyond, 'is rounder than a ring?'
'Mm,' replied the gamekeeper. 'This is an old riddle, and I know the answer. The earth is rounder than a ring!'
Lucy held up one finger. 'That's one right,' she said, 'but you still have five to answer. Second question: what is higher than a tree?'
The gamekeeper shook his head. 'You insult me, my pretty fair miss. Heaven is higher than a tree.'
Lucy's cheeks burned. Two questions right. Perhaps the gamekeeper was not as simple as she'd thought. 'These are the riddles my mother taught me,' she countered.
The gamekeeper held his tongue and gestured for her to proceed.
With two fingers now aloft, Lucy asked, 'What is worse than a woman's curse?' Around them, the night seemed to close in, sounds fell away, and not even the songbirds scolded.
'Oh, pretty girl,' whispered the gamekeeper. 'Only the devil is worse than a woman's curse.'
How soft his voice was. Lucy felt warm and cold at the same time. There was time, she thought vaguely, time to jump up and throw all the apples at this strange, knowing man, time to flee into the forest and take the little paths through the undergrowth, time to run. At the same time, she felt the next question on the tip of her tongue. It was like a dance now, like a phrase she had to say, like a prayer response at mass, written into her heart. 'What is deeper than the sea?'
Did the gamekeeper's smile soften? Was there more to him now than a man playing a game with a pretty girl? The fourth question, now. If he got that one right, he was on the winning side. 'Hell is deeper than the sea, miss. Hell is deeper than the sea.'
Lucy panicked. 'Which bird sings first?' she blurted out. 'And-- and, which one sings best, as well?'
The gamekeeper chuckled. 'That is really two questions,' he said. 'But we will pretend, if you like, that it is only one.' He brushed his finger across her cheek. 'You are such a beautiful girl,' he said. 'The lark sings first, but I think the thrush sings best.'
The realisation that she would lose this game came to Lucy, gently and with finality. It came to her in the slow way the sixth question formed in her head, the unfamiliar pleasure of that warm, strong finger upon her face. 'Where does the dew first fall?' she asked. She was unable to stop herself from asking.
'The dew falls in many places,' replied the gamekeeper. 'But the only place it is sure to reach and sink in, its only true destination, is the earth itself.' He took both her hands. 'Now stand up for me, sweet girl.'
Lucy stood up, leaving the basket of apples on the bench.
'Let me take those for you,' said the Captain solicitiously. 'Here, take my other hand.' He led her into the hunting lodge by the hand, then slipped a hand around her waist as they went up the stairs. 'We wouldn't want you to fall.'
Down the hall and into a large bedroom he led her. 'Go on and lie next to the wall,' he said. The bed was made of soft down, a bed for a nobleman or a king. He placed the basket of apples on a table by the small window, and he barred the door. And one by one, he gave her only the sweetest apples, until she was full and sleepy, and then he pulled her into his arms and whispered his name into her ear.
Night fell over the wood, a harvest night with a huge, round moon and the promise of grain and more apples, just days away. A mile to the west, Lucy's father paced the floor, anxious for his daughter and his apples, while his wife accepted with resignation why she'd suddenly remembered the riddle game.
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