The stile into the woods was considerably better behaved than its colleague at the top of the field: some swaying of the foot-piece and a slightly rubbery cross-bar, but nothing he couldn't handle. Once over he found himself in bright woodland. The trees were small, slender and tightly packed, jostling each other in the fight to reach the sun. Between the trunks grew clumps of writhing bramble and swaying ferns with neon-bright leaves cut into fractal patterns of sub-atomic perfection. To his right a sea of bluebells stretched into the distance, flooding the ground between the trees, the blueness of the flowers coalescing into a rippling ocean.
Here and there trees had fallen, losers in the battle for space. Some still refused to die and lay propped at odd angles against reluctant neighbours, their spindly branches reaching up in vain desperation to the lost light. Others had given up the struggle, lapsing into the quiet dignity of death. These lay rotting into the leaf mould, sprouting fungi in a final efflorescence of life: yellow shells, each as neat and fresh as a baby's ear; tight clusters of orange parasols, like crowds of tiny geishas; and huge slabs of flesh, red and raw. The leaf canopy was low and broken, shattering the sunlight into dappled patches. Birdsong echoed languorously through the liquid air, seeming to emanate from the trees and plants themselves.
The intricate beauty was too powerful for him and it swamped all his other thoughts, pouring in through his eyes and his ears, filling his skull, his body, his soul. He became his senses, he was no more than what he saw and heard: the writhing branches and the coiling briars, the dazzling, flowing colours and the swimming sounds. He had ceased to exist—he was the wood, the wood was him.
After an era (or possibly two) there was a sensation. Was it vision? No—then it must be hearing. But it was neither; a butterfly had settled on what seemed to be his hand—so he did have a body after all. The great insect hung there, nonchalantly opening and closing its electric blue wings. Not blue, green. Wait, surely it was yellow, metallic yellow—or orange? As the creature flew off into the liquid air, a flash of red flickered in the broken sunlight.
With his independent existence rekindled, he looked all about and saw that he was now in the midst of the wood—there was no stile behind him, there was no path in front of him. He wasn't concerned though, for he liked the wood. Perhaps he could stay here forever. If he stood still long enough, he might even become a tree himself. But as he began to subside once more into the liquid stillness, he noticed a movement in the distance; flying shapes were flitting through the trunks. As they got closer, he saw that they were hovering, like bees, and a quiet buzzing murmured in the turgid air, only just audible.
They were not bees, however, they were tiny people, each about two feet in length. A family of five—a man, a woman and three children—dressed casually for a pleasant day out. They flew horizontally, like swimmers buoyed up by the liquid air. Above the shoulders of each was a diaphanous blur, only just visible, which could have been buzzing membrane wings or a half-existent helicopter blade. And in place of eyes were jewelled visors: curved discs of crystal, the surfaces broken into hundreds of glittering hexagons that shivered the sunlight into the flashing colours of the rainbow.
They came closer and closer, hovering to and fro through the shimmering air, unconcerned by his presence. He hoped they would come closer still, possibly even close enough to speak to, but after investigating a clump of foam-splashed elder they drifted away through the trees. He watched until the last flicker of movement vanished into the distant blur of trunks, and then it was time he moved on too. Lifting his left foot he stepped out into the uncharted sea of ferns and bracken.
And like the Red Sea the undergrowth parted, moving politely aside to reveal a path that wound away between the trees.
Leathery heart shaped leaves slid in and out of focus, and trailing tendrils groped sinuously along the ground, coiling around the trunks of neighbouring trees. It was the bush's flowers, however, that had halted his purposeful stride through the woods: pink hand-sized blooms with thick fleshy petals folded together in a vertical calyx, each nestling a bed of densely packed leaves. He found himself transfixed, looking from one flower to another, held by a force he could not explain.
And the flowers seemed to react to his attention. The petals trembled and swelled, becoming turgid and beginning to open. Something touched his legs and pulled at his left arm—it was the plant's tendrils, coiling around him like the tentacles of some carnivorous sea-creature. A particular flower now drew him, a large bloom growing at waist height. Slowly but inexorably the petals spread under his fascinated gaze to reveal the purple heart of the flower, a smooth throated orifice that glistened with clear nectar. When the flower was fully open, the whole plant began to tremble. He felt warm honey trickle down his spine and the tendrils pulled more firmly, dragging him forward.
His fascination was a slimy thing that slithered around in his skull like an overexcited mollusc. The honey pooled in his belly and he felt strangely weak, unable to do anything but stare into the drooling flower. He was trapped, as surely as a shrimp in the tentacles of a sea-anemone.
'Come on, girls, don't dally now!'
It was a woman's voice, not far away and coming his way. The shock snapped his trance and he pulled back from the plant. Burning with sudden shame, he started tearing the tendrils off his arms and legs. But it was too late; trotting down the path towards him came two Cavalier King Charles spaniels dressed in miniature school uniforms—grey pleated skirts, white blouses, lime-green blazers with orange piping—with their owner a few paces behind. Crawling with embarrassment, he stood with his back to the plant, trying to hide the spread-open, dripping flowers.
'Good afternoon!' he said, forcing a broad breezy smile, 'Such a lovely day, isn't it?'
She was a large and buxom woman, late fifties with her greying hair in a tight bun, wearing a matching tweed skirt and jacket. She eyed him quizzically, but did not return his greeting. His smile became foolish and fixed. The dogs were sniffing around his feet, their tails wagging happily under their skirt hems. He brushed away a tendril which was reaching around his shoulder, hoping she wouldn't notice.
'For the time of year, that is,' he bumbled, 'The weather, I mean.'
She strode up to him, standing too close. She had a strong, determined face, the face of a woman who would stand no nonsense. He squirmed, avoiding her eyes.
'It's your pollen they're after,' she said, in a confidential stage-whisper.
'What?' he said, almost too surprised to speak. He tried to back away, but she pressed closer, almost touching his face with hers.
'The flowers—they suck it out of you.' She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable. 'Every last drop.'
She stepped back, allowing him to digest her words.
'You should let them, you know. Does them good. My husband says so. He always lets them.'
'Er… that's nice.' Soft paws padded at his knees; the other dog was jumping up at him, wanting attention. He leaned down to pat her head, being careful not to dislodge her hair-band. The bush thankfully seemed to have lost interest in him and the remaining tendrils were now draped limply around his ankles.
'Marvellous shirt, by the way,' said the woman, 'Matches the blazers.'
The jacket lining clung to his arms like dead skin and he wriggled uncomfortably.
'The what?'
'The blazers—the girls' coats.'
'Yes, of course,' he said vaguely. He kicked off the last plant tendril. 'Um—it has been nice talking to you, but I really must be off.'
'The other way,' she said, as he started up the path, 'I told you before.'
'Sorry?'
'I've already told you: that way. Then ask at the village.'
'Ask what?'
'About the woman.' He started with surprise—the voice was also female, but it came from near his feet, from the second dog who was sitting on the path, looking up at him.
'The Woman Who Looks Both Ways,' she added, with a significant smile, and then trotted over to join her sister and her mistress.
At first the woods were filled with a manic lewdness; the trees twisted suggestively, the ferns undulated like street girls, lascivious and brazen, and the birdsong trickled into his ears, the honeyed cooing of depraved courtesans. But he hurried on, averting his eyes from the pornographic writhing, repelled rather than beguiled.
The prurience soon evaporated. The undulations of the vegetation became once again innocently graceful, a gorgeous dance of colour and no more. He began to breathe more easily and slowed his pace to a calm stroll.
The trees were thinner here, the trunks interspersed with tall stands of fern in dazzling green patterns, reminiscent of wallpaper from the mid-sixties. As he struggled up the steep incline he heard the yap of an excited spaniel, thankfully far behind.
Despite their unappealing mistress, though, he had liked the dogs, such sweet little things in their pretty uniforms. What was it that she had said about his shirt and their coats? He stopped and pulled open his jacket. Indeed she was right—his tee-shirt, in lime green with orange lettering, was in the same colour scheme as the blazers. He stretched the shirt out by the hem to read what it said. Unfortunately this was easier in theory than in practice, for not only was the writing upside down, but the letters kept swimming about, like goldfish in a lime green pond, changing positions with each other and slipping away round the back out of sight, or just crumpling themselves up in shapeless orange blobs.
Eventually, however, with a superhuman effort of concentration, he succeeded, nailing down the letters one by one and forcing each to divulge its identity. The first word was 'SEEKER' in big bold capitals and under this were the words 'LINKAGE SYSTEMS', in capital italics. The last line started with three dots, followed by 'finding solutions' in lower case and then another three dots.
SEEKER
LINKAGE SYSTEMS
…finding solutions…
The words made no sense at all and yet somehow seemed to be of great significance. He felt that he ought to know what they meant and he sensed something hovering, diaphanous and half-existent, at the edge of his mind that held the secret. As he tried to grasp it, however, it slithered out of reach and was gone.
Still, the woman had been dead right in saying that it was a nice tee-shirt—the smooth satiny greenness contrasted perfectly with the swimming orange blobs: a perfect combination of colours. Then a sudden darkness scudded through his soul. He had seen these colours somewhere else, somewhere before the dogs. But where? The ferns had stopped smiling—they were watching him now, edging menacingly closer. Again he sensed something hovering at the edge of his awareness, just out of reach. This time, however, the something was more solid, uncomfortably solid, and he knew that if he wanted he could seize it and its secret would be his. His skin crawled at the thought. But though this time he very much didn't want to remember, the memory began to force its way in—back at the first stile, a woman in a red dress strolling over the grassy knoll beside… beside… A half-bellow, half-scream tore through his skull and he charged forward, leaving the image behind, a diaphanous hologram flickering among the foliage.
He stepped off the swaying stile into an open, friendly-looking field. Breathing deeply, he gazed up at the unbroken ceramic sky with a warm breeze on his face. The foul miasma of the wood began to seep out of his skin and away into the cleansing air. It was a good field this one, a decent and honest field.
At the far end, a group of animals grazed together, crossing the field in unison, heads down munching grass. It was a herd of dogs—black Labradors if he wasn't mistaken—with floppy ears hanging around munching jaws, glossy coats shining in the sun, and tails wagging with quiet contentment. And not more than thirty yards away, in the shade of a handsome oak, two horses were sitting either side of a flat topped tree stump poring with intense concentration over a chess board. How did they pick up the pieces with their hooves? he wondered. There was a flash of yellow to his right as a single rabbit dashed for the cover of a nettle patch.
He sensed that he wasn't going to get any trouble from this field and he was right. The dogs looked up lazily as he passed, grass ripples swirled about his feet in the usual way and the thistles danced with gay abandon, but nothing tried to impede his smooth progress as he followed the path to a gate in the far hedge.
Once over the gate, he found himself standing on the smooth, plastic surface of a road. And then he was flummoxed—for the road, as is the norm for its kind, ran in two directions, either of which could have been the correct one for him to follow. On this occasion, however, he was lucky; a few yards to the right was a T-junction, and at the junction was a signpost, a proper black and white road signpost, assiduously designating each of the three routes.
He rubbed his eyes and stared closely at one of the three signs, but was still unable to decipher anything, not one single word. There were certainly letters there—he could see an 'S' and at least three 'E's—but they just seemed to swim around in front of his eyes, like alphabetical tadpoles.
As with the tee-shirt, he decided to be systematic, to read one letter at a time. And indeed, when he looked carefully at the first, it was as clear as day, a nice crisp 'T'. He moved on to the second and saw an unambiguous 'F', then the third, a definite 'Q'. But as he focussed on the fourth letter, a tiny doubt whispered sharply in his ear: what place name in England begins 'TFQ'? Perhaps he had made a mistake. He went back to check the beginning—but this time the first letter was a 'G' and the 'T' had moved, he could see it about four letters on. Then, as he watched, the 'F' swapped places with the 'Q' which barged into the 'G', pushing it off the end of the sign—and once again the whole thing was all a complete mess.
'This is ludicrous,' he muttered, 'What on earth is the good of a signpost that won't say where it's pointing? The other one might have been rude, but at least it knew what it was doing. You're just pathetic.'
He was about to turn away in disgust, but then noticed that the swimming letters were quivering sadly, as if the sign were about to burst into tears. A needle of remorse jabbed at his conscience.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. But signposts do normally show place names. It's their job, you know.'
The sign trembled with silent sobs, its letters running like wet ink. He sighed, wishing he had kept his big mouth shut.
'Look, there's no need to get upset. I'm sure you could do it if you wanted to.'
It seemed to brighten a little. Maybe that's all it needed, a bit of encouragement.
'Go on, give it a try. It's not that difficult, really it isn't.'
It now had an air of eager expectancy, like a dog waiting for its next command. He pointed to one of the roads.
'Where does this one go, for example?'
The sign looked puzzled, its letters swimming anxiously.
'Go on, then,' he encouraged, 'All you have to do is tell me.'
He waited, but nothing legible appeared. The sign began to tremble, again on the verge of tears.
'Please don't get upset again,' he said, 'What if I make some suggestions and you tell me which is right? Do you think that would help?'
It brightened again.
'Alright then, we'll start with this one.' He pointed to one of the three directions. 'Now let me see—where could this road possibly go to?'
He thought hard, struggling to apply the turbid swirl of his mind to the geography of the area. Words that could have been place names swam around enticingly, each trying to tempt him with its topographical pertinence.
'Does it go to Manchester?' he asked, grabbing the nearest. And within a split second, 'MANCHESTER' had appeared, in crisp neat letters. On its own initiative, the sign had added a tidy little '2½m' at the end.
'Brilliant!' he exclaimed, delighted with the accuracy of his intuition. The sign quivered with pride.
'What about this one?' He pointed to the next road. 'Blackburn, perhaps?'
And there it was—'BLACKBURN 3m'—in clear black and white. So he'd been right twice: not bad, considering he didn't know the area. But then he always had been good at getting his bearings.
'Now, what about the last one,' he said, 'It seems to be going south. Where to, I wonder.' The letters swam expectantly. 'What about Bristol?'
No sooner was the word out of his mouth than it was up on the sign: 'BRISTOL 1½m'.
'Great! All done. It wasn't that hard, was it?'
But even as he spoke, the maggot of doubt began to gnaw. If he was two and a half miles from Manchester, could Bristol really be just a mile and half away? The signpost stood in the sunshine as proud as a peacock, displaying its three directions to all the world. He almost didn't say anything, it looked so happy.
'Do you really mean Bristol?' he asked, gently, 'You don't mean Birmingham, do you?'
'BIRMINGHAM 3½m': it had changed before his mouth was closed.
Oh dear.
'Or Glasgow?'
'GLASGOW 4m'.
'Look, I don't want to be rude,' he said, losing heart, 'but I think you've missed the point here.'
'TAUNTON 2m', followed quickly by 'NEWCASTLE-UNDER-LYME ½m'.
'No, no, no. You're just guessing now.'
'KENILWORTH 5m'. 'STOCKBRIDGE 6½m'. 'WHITELEAF 11m'.
'It doesn't matter. Let's forget it shall we? I'm sorry to have bothered you.' The sign quivered anxiously, flicking up names like a deranged railway departures board.
'PARIS 3m'. 'LAGOS 5½m'. 'NEW DELHI 3m'.
'Don't get upset. It's all OK. I'm just going over here, that's all.'
The words became a blur, changing too fast to read, and the poor thing began to tremble with grief.
Sitting down on the grass verge about ten yards away from the miserable sign, he carefully avoided eye contact with it. He heard what could have been a suppressed sob—and winced.
But why should he feel guilty? The sign couldn't do its job and that was that. He wasn't responsible for the professional failings of the public infrastructure. Didn't the Council have training programmes for this sort of thing? He kicked at the roadside gravel and pulled crossly at the scrubby grass beside him. He only wanted to know where the roads went to and surely that wasn't too much to ask. Otherwise how was he supposed to know how to get to where he was going?
The tumble of thoughts ceased abruptly and then a question mark popped up in his head: where exactly was he going? This was not followed by an immediate answer.
Releasing the unjustly punished grass, he peered into the slithering pool of his brain where a hundred thoughts and memories wriggled around like eels, always just sliding out of his grip and disappearing into the turbid water. He caught one: a rather unpleasant pollen-hungry plant and a woman in a tweed suit. The memory oozed a cold, clinging slime—but it did answer his question: 'ask at the village'.
But before he could put the memory back into the water, another blob of the slime splattered against the inside of his skull: 'I've already told you'. Her words were as clear as when she had first said them and he shivered quickly as a strange chill crawled over his skin. Why had she said that? She had only seen him once, so how could she have told him already? She must be mistaking him for someone else.
Something slipped into his mind, a creeping dangerous thing, unwelcome as a pernicious disease: a man walking beside a woman in a red dress. The image was crystal clear—and in glorious technicolour. Hardly daring to do so, he looked down to his chest. Then he knew where he had seen these colours—lime green and fluorescent orange—before the dogs' blazers.
There was a faint rumbling at the edge of his mind. With fumbling fingers, he pulled up the jacket zip to hide the loathsome tee-shirt. The roar of a jungle animal, far away but getting nearer. Strange implications began to coalesce, too foul to even contemplate. The noise was louder, the creature was closing fast. In a hurricane of sudden panic he leapt to his feet, covering his ears to block out his thoughts. The enraged beast roared through his brain, it was nearly on him. In a whirl of bat-face images, he ran into the road, crushed by the escalating roar.
Suddenly it was there, hurtling towards him: a shining red monster with silver teeth and flashing eyes, devouring the tarmac and bellowing its fury through his jellied mind. It screamed as he staggered out of its path, and then tore past, disappearing up the road.
For some moments he stood on the verge, panting hard, his brain pumping with liquid fear. He didn't like this loathsome place, he didn't like it at all. He ran back to the road junction—which way, which bloody way? He looked up at the signpost—and saw a swimming blur.
'The village! Which way is the village?'
The flustered letters spun even faster. Crawling with frustration, he pointed to one of the roads.
'Is it this one?' he shouted, 'Is this the way to the village?'
And there it was: 'THE VILLAGE 6½m'.
'Thank you, thank you so much,' he said with relief, and was away.