Arcadia

41

Antros was on the verge of finally killing the deer that he had been patiently tracking for more than an hour. It had stopped to drink at a narrow stream and he had a clear shot at it. Only fifty feet or so, an easy target that he could not possibly miss. The arrow was in place, and slowly he pulled back on the string until he could feel the feather against his ear. Very carefully, he took aim, held his breath — and watched helplessly as the deer started, ducked, swerved and disappeared into the bushes, disturbed by the blood-curdling scream that echoed through the forest.

He cursed and cursed again. The despair and terror in that scream frightened him as much as it had the deer. More, perhaps, as he knew that it was a human voice that had produced it. He jumped to his feet — his knee aching from resting on the ground for such a long time — and listened again. Swiftly but carefully, he ran lightly toward the noise. He kept his bow close, the arrow still in place. He might very well need it.

There was nothing dangerous that he could see. In the middle of the scrub there was a figure, a slight boy sitting on the ground, hunched over. Injured? It didn’t seem so, but the sound of sobbing suggested he was in some distress.

Antros did not hurry. He had lived in the forest long enough to be cautious. The boy wasn’t dying. Antros lowered himself behind a bush and watched. There seemed to be no trap, no one else nearby. There was the Copse, but no one would dare hide in that. There were no untoward sounds, no movements that made him alert.

He stood up and skirted round so that he could approach the boy from behind; he didn’t seem dangerous but men died in the forest from not being careful. When he got within a few feet he pulled on the bowstring once more, so that the arrow was pointing straight at the boy’s back, and spoke.

‘Who are you?’

Slowly the boy lifted his head, and Antros could see the pallor of his face, the tears running down his cheeks. He relaxed and loosened the string of his bow.

‘What’s the matter with you, young fellow?’ he asked. ‘Seen a ghost?’

The boy looked at him for a long time, lips trembling.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked more gently. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘My name is... My name is Ganimed.’

‘Why are you so frightened? Are you lost? Where are your parents, your people?’

‘I don’t know. I’m alone here. I went into those trees and... and...’

‘You went into the Copse? Why? What for? Don’t you know what is in there?’

‘No. But it’s horrible. Horrible.’

‘It is a terribly dangerous, foolish thing to do. Were you attacked?’

‘There was no one there.’

‘I didn’t mean by people. Stand up. Let me look at you.’

Antros began to examine him, peering into his eyes and ears, then took a step back. ‘You seem all right,’ he said. ‘Who are you? Where are you from?’

A shake of the head. ‘Please don’t ask me any questions. Please don’t.’

Antros felt his heart softening, but he didn’t let it show. There were many questions left to be answered before the lad deserved sympathy. Instead he said gruffly, ‘Best come with me then.’

‘No, no. I can’t.’

‘You must. You have to get away from here. It’s dangerous for you. We have to leave now. Come, boy. Do as you are told.’

‘I most certainly will not.’ He peered at him.

‘Do as I ask, then.’

The boy gave in. ‘Very well.’

Rosalind was in some disarray as she padded alongside the young man who had rescued her and taken command of the situation. What was she supposed to have done? She didn’t know who he was, what he wanted. She was all alone in the world and didn’t have any protection. She could have refused to go with him, but didn’t want to risk provoking him, just in case he wasn’t as benevolent as his voice made him sound. She had been warned at school about strange men. Not, admittedly, about walking through deserted forests with strange men armed with a bow and arrow, but she was sure that the general principle was sound. If she was in some sort of danger, she didn’t want Aliena to be caught up in it as well. Rosalind was sure she could find her own way back to the shepherd’s hut. She hoped so, at least.

Her rambling train of thought brought her back to the moment when she had walked so carelessly into the centre of that copse of oak trees. The moment she had looked up she had realised what all the shapes were, half-hidden in the gloom, covered in leaves, and what the sweet smell was.

It was filled with dead bodies, half-consumed, rotting, torn to pieces by birds and animals, decayed by damp and covered in flies and insects. There were dozens if not hundreds of them, strewn over the ground. Before she began to run, she noticed the corpse of a young child, scarcely more than a baby. Its skin was green, its body eaten away, and there was a clump of mushrooms growing out of one eye. Then the smell began to overwhelm her, sweet and not unpleasant until you knew what it was; the sounds, the innocent sounds of woodlands, until you know why they were so loud and insistent.

She sank to the ground and began heaving. She vomited, violently and terribly, all of her breakfast, everything in her stomach welling out of her as those smells and images and sounds crowded into her brain. She clutched her stomach in pain and heaved again, then for a third time.

She was panting and exhausted from the involuntary effort, feeling the prickly sweat on her back and in her hair from the violence, the foul taste in her mouth which was at least better than her memories. She rolled over in the grass and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the midday sun on her. Even so, she was shivering in shock and distress.

Her companion swept the distant treeline until he was satisfied they were alone, then sat down a few feet away from her. When she stopped heaving and opened her eyes again he proffered a flask of water.

‘Rinse out your mouth a few times; get rid of the taste. If there are any spirits left inside you it should help flush them out.’

She did as she was told, then wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her jacket.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘They let you off lightly. You cannot have had a bad intent.’

‘Who let me off?’

‘The spirits. You shouldn’t have gone in there. It is not a place for the living. You were an intruder. You were lucky they didn’t possess you, or send you mad.’

Rosalind sniffed. ‘I don’t think they needed to. I think I’m mad already. What is that place, anyway?’

‘Do you really not know...?’

‘No!’ she shouted. ‘I really do not know. I don’t. Nothing. Do you understand? Can’t you just answer a perfectly straightforward question?’

Antros took a step back in surprise at this outburst, especially as, instead of being apologetic, she glared at him defiantly, daring him to reprimand her.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes, I can answer a perfectly straightforward question. That is the place of the dead. One of them, at least. For the people of Willdon. When someone dies, their body is laid there, to be returned to the forest. It is a sacred place, under the protection of the spirits. The living do not go into it without good reason. You trespassed and so the spirits entered you and made you ill. I hope that is all they intend.’

‘That was adrenalin.’

‘We do not name them,’ he said. ‘To us they are just the spirits of the forest.’

Rosalind sighed. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘You must be cleansed. I will take you to Pamarchon. He will know what to do.’

‘Pamarchon?’ she said, looking up at him suddenly.

‘Don’t be afraid. He is not as you may have heard. Now I must insist that you come with me.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, her mood changing suddenly. ‘If you insist.’

Antros was caught off balance again. He had expected to have to force the lad against his will.

‘Good. This way. Please.’

They walked for an hour — or maybe it was ten minutes; she wasn’t paying attention. After a while she heard voices in the distance. The smell of smoke drifted into her nose, and then the aromas of food being cooked. She heard laughter — a good sign. Happy people don’t get too rough.

A camp site, but quite unlike anything she had seen before. Not that she had ever been camping. Her parents didn’t like that sort of thing. She loved her parents, she really did. But they knew nothing about being young. Rosalind suspected, in fact, that they never had been young. Still, she knew what camp sites were like — identical brown or grey canvas tents, a camp fire, another canvas construction for the toilets. Neat orderly rows. Washing on a line.

This was nothing like that. It was chaotic, for a start, with tents pitched everywhere. If you could call them tents. Some were made of bits of material, true enough. But others were made out of tree branches covered in soil and grass. Some were big, some small. Some rested on the ground, others were dug into a sort of ditch. Some were even constructed out of stone, piled high and resting on logs. All around was disorderly as well. Children ran about screaming, weaving in and out among the adults, playing and chasing each other. Women criss-crossed the ground with jugs of water or washing on their heads. In the far corner some men were having a sword fight, elsewhere others were chopping wood. Everywhere people talked, loudly and cheerfully, while cows and sheep and chickens wandered about, ignored by the numerous dogs and cats equally.

She took in the scene then stopped, open-mouthed. With a rush of amazement she recognised Jay, who was standing about twenty yards away, talking to a woman who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, peeling potatoes and throwing them into a large metal pot beside her. She was about to go over or call a greeting when Antros came back and took her by the arm. ‘Prisoners,’ he said. ‘Don’t go near them.’