The Hollowing by Robert Holdstock
Alex stared at Richard with a searching curiosity. “Your hair’s gone grey. You’ve got lots of grey.”
Richard kissed the boy’s forehead, then with his arm tightly around him led him back to the altar. “I’m getting old. Too many adventures.”
“I’ve been dreaming, haven’t I? It was such a funny dream. Can we go home?”
“Of course we can go home,” Richard whispered. He glanced down. “You’ll find things a bit changed, Alex. You’ve been in a long sleep. It’s been a long dream.”
“I saw Mr. Keeton. He was very sad. Is Tallis all right?”
Shaking his head, Richard said, “Tallis went away. Mr. Keeton was very sick, and he died.” He couldn’t help his tears. He hugged his son to his chest. Alex struggled for breath, pushed at his father’s embrace.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m grown-up enough to know that Mr. Keeton was very ill.”
“Mummy’s gone away too. But you’ll be able to visit her. It will be very important for you both.”
Alex looked grim. “You were always arguing. I could hear you from my room.”
“We were always arguing,” Richard agreed gently. “We weren’t happy.”
“Are you going to argue with the new one? The Red Indian?”
“American Indian! We don’t say ‘red’ any more. And no, I’m not going to argue with her. I know what songs to sing these days…”
“Is she a real Indian?”
Richard laughed. “Of course! Helen Silverlock is an almost pure blood Lakota. Or did she say Dakota? Minnesota? Anyway, she’s Sioux. I think. Maybe Cherokee.” Damn! He couldn’t remember.
Alex was looking puzzled. “What does ‘pure blood’ mean?”
“She had a tough grandfather. She’s got a lot of courage.”
“What’s Lakota and Dakota?”
Richard sighed. “I don’t know. Signs and signals of my ignorance of any history that isn’t our own. But what does it matter? I love the ‘new one’ as you call her because she’s making history with me. Silver hair on each side of her head, feathers up her nose, Rolling Stones and all.”
Alex looked blank, and Richard reflected ruefully that the boy had ridden away with the Green Knight before the Rolling Stones had given their “Mummy” her “little helpers,” before the Beatles had “please, pleased” themselves. If they could ever get out of this wood again, it would be 1967 … maybe 1968, eight years since Alex’s healing had begun. And there was a climate of healing in the world beyond Ryhope now, a mood of peace, societies angry at the war in Indo-China; and the Seventies were looming, and things were going to be so much more interesting! Alex would enter that new world, that brightly blossoming world, like a young leaf unfurling to make his mark on the tree, to suck in the sun, to add his voice and his dreams to the dreams and voices that were striving so hard to make their courage and their vision known.
Richard was startled by Alex touching his eyes. “You’re crying,” the boy said.
“Am I? So I am. I was just thinking how much you had to look forward to. I was just thinking of being home.”
“Me too. I think the Green Knight just showed us the way.” Alex wriggled away, and drew the cloak around his tall, thin body. He used a piece of creeper to tie the baggy garment at his waist, and hauled the extra length up and tucked it in the belt.
He went back through the trees to the broken floor and peered down into the crypt. Arnauld Lacan crouched beside him, spear held firmly between his knees. Alex said, “When I was dreaming, I moved through strange corridors, through the roots under the world. I could dream of you. I saw you.” He glanced at Lacan. “I could also dream of the hollyjacks. Sometimes I dreamed of the world outside, and I think this is the way home. It’s down through the dead, but I think the dead only frightened me because they were coming back. They’re all back now. There’s nothing to be frightened of.” He looked up at Richard. “I’d like to go home.”
“I know you would,” Richard whispered, looking desperately at the falcon window. Helen was still out there! He couldn’t leave until she came back. But he couldn’t leave Alex again, not now, not having found him. He was too precious a treasure ever to leave again.
He could hardly think straight. He wanted Alex home, and safe—he wanted Helen safe, and coming home.
Before he could speak a word, Alex looked up sharply, quite alarmed.
“What about your friend? She might be in trouble! Are you going to help her?”
“Yes,” Richard said quietly. “I’m going to try and find her. I won’t have to wait long. I can hunt for game. There’s plenty of water in the well…”
“Is she hunting down a wolf?”
“Coyote.”
“Sounds like a wolf to me. I’ve heard him crying. He’s there now, out in the woods. Can you hear?”
And indeed, as Richard fell silent and raised his head, as he listened hard through the trees and stone, he could hear an odd baying, a triumphant and frightening wolf-cry. A battle was being fought. He reached for his bow, but Sarin stepped forward and held him. Her dark eyes glistened.
“Let her be. Let her be. If you lose her, it will be because she’s dead. But if you find her, it will be because she’s won. Just let her come back in the way that will give her release from her nightmare. She knows the way out of the wood. And you’ve already proved enough. I will never forget how you defeated Jason! Now sit between the worlds and wait, and pray, wait for what happens. Now take care of Alex. Take him home…”
Lacan loomed behind the Tall Grass Speaker. “I’ve just been down among the bones. There’s certainly a hollowing below us. It has that feel. But if this giggler thing has gone, we might do better to go the land route.” He sensed the awkward silence. “What’s happening?”
Sarin said grimly, “I think Richard is staying. To help Helen.”
Lacan smiled broadly. “Of course he is! And we’re staying too. Four are better than one! Besides, what’s the alternative?”
Richard said, “You could take Alex back to my house in Shadoxhurst—wait for us there…”
“Your house?” Lacan said, horrified. “Where no doubt there is nothing to drink but tea and medicines?”
“You might find some red wine in the sitting-room.”
“In the sitting-room,” Lacan breathed with a despairing shake of his head. “In the light, no doubt. By the fire. In the warm. To keep it happy. A very fine vinegar, I’m sure, but if I want to drink vinegar I’ll go to a British fish-and-chip shop. There is no hope for you. Please immediately return to the bosk. I shall save your son from the humiliation of you being his father. Come on, Alex.” He squeezed the boy’s ear gently, teasingly. “Come on. We have a long journey. We have to hunt before we leave the wood. To eat, you understand! We have to prepare for your home—and for all the horrors it no doubt contains.”
Alex watched his father all the time. “I’m staying,” he said, and Lacan laughed quietly.
“Of course you are.”
The boy came over and took Richard’s hand. Richard smiled at his son, tightened the boy’s cloak across his chest, noticed what brightness of spirit, what sudden awareness and maturity had etched the edges of the smooth face that stared at him.
“Perhaps you should go home. Arnauld is only joking when he says the things he says.”
“I know!” Alex said in frustration. “I’m not stupid. But Sarin told me that she can’t live outside the wood for very long, and Arno’ wants to stay with her, so they wouldn’t be with me for long. So we should stay.”
Outside the cathedral a wolf whined, a long, plaintive, and sinister sound that made Richard’s skin crawl.
“I’m frightened for you!” he said, standing.
“Don’t be.”
* * *
Later, Richard went up to the window, to sit and watch and wait, listening to the whining call and the mocking laughter of the creature that Helen, perhaps, was hunting.
The night deepened. A fire
The wolf bayed in the wildwood, then chuckled and chattered. No wolf, then.
A flight of rooks swirled noisily through the cold night, stags coughed and barked, wide-winged water birds flapped noisily, moonlight grey as they circled their high roosts. The wood was a restless yet motionless expanse of dark and at its farther end the fire burned, the figure moved, the sky glowed, Coyote prowled. Above its nearer edge, at the threshold that separated two worlds, Richard Bradley lay on his side, curled up like a child asleep, thinking of the son he’d found and the woman he loved.
He was startled by movement behind him and grabbed for his knife. Something had been climbing the ivy ladder to the falcon window. Half-dazed, he turned and reached down to defend himself against the intruder.
“It’s me,” Alex said.
The boy scrambled the last few feet and huddled on the wide stone ledge, shivering slightly, watching the fire in the distance, close to where his Mask Tree grew in the forest. “Arno’ and Sarin have gone down into the crypt. I think they’re sleeping. I’d like to stay up here while you’re waiting for Helen. If that’s OK…?” He seemed apprehensive.
Out in the wood the sound of a wolf triumphant split the night. An instant later the sound was cut off. There was something chilling, something very final about that sudden silence.
“Is it OK?” the boy asked.
Richard smiled and reached to pinch Alex’s pale cheek. He glanced back to the fire, which had now begun to fade.
“It’s OK,” he said.
END
Appendix
Editor’s note: George Huxley recorded numerous folk tales, myths, and legends, mostly obscure, which he heard or interpreted during his explorations of Ryhope Wood between 1928 and 1946. He dates Jack His Father to 600 BC, an early Celtic version of a much older Kurgan tale.
R.H.
Jack His Father
Jack was sowing the last of the summer wheat when the smell of smoke told him of the raid on his village. His sister, who had better hearing than a hound, yelled “Horsemen!” and ran quickly to the cover of the woods. From the tree-line she called to Jack to hide. The boy followed her as far as the first tree, but stood with his back against it, strong against the coming storm. In the distance he could see the smoke rising from the enclosure where his father’s house would now be burning.
“I still have a father, a mother, a sister, and three brothers,” he said desperately to the birds that circled the field. The ravens departed noisily, mocking him. The geese descended to eat the summer seed, and Jack’s heart sank.
The armed runners came first, searching for crops and cattle. They led three calves with them, and two horses, which trotted in silence since their jaws had been tied. These men were young. The horsemen and the warlord’s chariot came after, riding suddenly from the trees, hooves drumming, chariot wheels creaking. Two of the horsemen saw Jack and galloped down upon him. Jack stood his ground, his right fist clenched around the last of the wheat. He saw the sacks that were tethered and slung across the withers of the horses, and thought at once of the pigs and fowl that he and his sister had so carefully raised.
“Don’t tell them I’m here!” whispered his sister from hiding. “Since you’re so stupid that you won’t hide, then your head it’ll be, but don’t give me away.”
“You’ll give yourself away, if you don’t shut up.”
The man in the chariot was Bran, resplendent in dark leathers and a red cloak. He wore a crested war helmet, and the silver curve of the moon was stitched into his corselet. He was black-haired, big-handed, clean of face. The blue and black symbols of his clan, the Boar and Eagle, spread richly across his cheeks and chin. Now he crouched in front of Jack, amused by the boy, and of a mind to bargain.
“I see you wear good shoes,” he says. “Cowhide, is it? Well-stitched, I think.”
But Jack blows a hard breath at the man. “Take them from me or leave them on me, it makes no difference. If you’ve done us harm I’ll follow you faster than cloud shadow.”
The horsemen laugh, but the man with the crested helmet does not.
“That’s a fine talisman, that bone carving, that boar, on the leather there, around your neck.”
But Jack blows a hard breath at the man. “Take it from me or leave it on me, it makes no difference. If you’ve done us harm I’ll come at you from a hawthorn thicket faster than the breeze.”
The horsemen shift nervously now, horse-chains rattling, sacks of booty swinging in the cooling day. The crested man draws a small bronze dagger and meets the defiant gaze.
“That’s a brave tongue you wag at me, that lip-licker, there, that loud proclaimer.”
But again Jack blows a hard breath. “Cut it from me or leave it in me, it makes no difference. If you’ve done us harm I’ll sing in your ears as the crows feast on your eyes.”
The dagger points at Jack’s right hand. “I’ll have what’s there, then. I’ll have what you hold, or cut it from you, that clenched hand.”
“Cut it from me, then. It’s the only way you’ll get it, and what I hold will vanish.”
“What does that fist conceal?”
“Seeds,” says the boy.
“What sort of seeds?”
“The seed of a tree that takes no more than a day to grow and can make a house where there’s always a feast of pork roasting on the fire.”
“I’ll certainly have that,” says Bran hungrily. “And I’ll have more. What else?”
“The seed of a tree that takes no more than a day to grow and can make a boat fit to cross any haunted lake.”
“I’ll have that too, and more besides. What else?”
“The seed of a tree that grows faster than the hair on a man’s face, and can give shelter and fruit to a host of men. From its top can be seen the Isle of Women.”
“I’ll have that, and twice over!” says Bran, his eyes lively, his hand patting his balls. “Or die in the trying.”
So Jack says, “What will you give me for them?”
He can hear the sound of women crying. A cold wind brings the smell of smoke and slaughter over the fields, where the geese stalk the new seeds, and the ravens cast dark shadows.
And Bran says, “I’ll give you the best singing voice a man could wish to hear.”
Jack laughs. “I’ll certainly take that from you. And I’ll have more.”
“Then I’ll give you the prize of all pigs taken in this raid.”
“I’ll certainly take that from you,” says Jack hungrily. “And I’ll still have more.”
“Then I’ll give you back your father,” says the helmeted man, this Bran, with a scowl, slapping his knees to signify an end to the bargaining. “And promise to make you a better man than him. There, now, it’s done, this game. That’s all.”
Jack agrees and holds out the seeds to the chieftain, who takes them and looks at them angrily. “This is wheat!”
“Not everything is as it seems,” says Jack with a laugh.
“Indeed, but that’s right, that’s very true.”
The chieftain shakes his head and scowls, then goes to his chariot and fetches a sack, which he tosses to the boy. When Jack opens it, his father’s head, half-lidded and bloody, grimaces at him from its cold grave.
Bran and the horsemen laugh and turn to ride along the river. The chief calls from his wicker chariot, “Indeed, Jack, you were quite right there, correct in what you said. Not everything is as it seems. But I kept my part of the bargain, that bargain there just now, which you cheated on! Your father was the wild pig of your clan I prized the most, and he sang for his life more sweetly than your three brothers, who I’ll be taking with me, in those sacks, there, which you thought were pigs. And since he’s dead, your father, then it takes no magic to make you the better man!”
“You’ve taken my last seeds!” he shouts at the birds. “Now you must pay for them. There can never be a better man than my father, so make me my father now, and return me to that chariot, that armoured man, who killed him, to follow him.”
And he catches a goose by its legs, holding the bird down, while the crows circle and chatter with amusement at Jack’s cleverness. The goose is ashamed at its greed, the eating of the wheat while Jack had fought for his life. The air is suddenly full of feathers, and the sound of the Screech Owl that has been summoned, and by her magic Jack takes the shape of a raven which feeds upon the sad eyes of his father. Then the raven becomes the head. Only a goose is strong enough to carry the head in its sack, and this goose flies up above the furrows, and then to the west, following the chariot. Jack’s sister takes their father home, to the burned village.
When the goose is above Bran’s chariot, it lets the sack fall.
Then Bran opens the sack, and Jack-his-father opens his eyes. And he says, in his father’s voice, “Give me back my sons.”
“Never!” says the chief, but he ties the sack again and rests his foot upon it as he rides, frightened by what has happened.
* * *
The first night after the raid they camped on open land. Bran planted one of the seeds, more by way of humour than expectation, and pissed upon it. But Jack-his-father rolled unseen from the chariot and changed his shape again. He sang as he grew, a head becoming a tree, a strong oak, spreading out over the camp, reaching boughs to the ground and using leaves as a roof. When he had enclosed the raiders and their horses, he made the fire spring up and the wood spit and hiss with the rich fat of a spitted pig. He made sap run as honeyed ale and watched as the men below him fell into a pleasant stupor. The crows in Jack’s branches flew down and stole back the severed head of his eldest brother. “Carry it safely,” Jack said, and the sound of his voice woke Bran, but too late to stop the birds from flying off, out of this unknown region.