Читать книгу On the Edges of Elfland - David Mosley - Страница 10

Alfred had been home for several months and winter was fast approaching when one morning, well before sunrise, Alfred’s mother knocked on his bedroom door, “Alfred, would you be a dear, and go into the wood to fetch me some of the mushrooms for my mushroom soup? It’s rained overnight and there ought to be a fair few to be had.” Jessica Perkins’s mushroom soup was famous several miles around Carlisle, particularly for its rarity and freshness. Jessica only used a certain kind of mushroom, and then only fresh picked. Alfred stumbled out of bed, pulling on trousers and a jumper his mother knit for him last Christmas; it being a chilly morning. Alfred had a quick bite of toast and glug of coffee and went out into the mist.

It is about two miles from Alfred’s home to the edge of Fey Forest, so Alfred had to walk by the old church St. Nicholas’s, which had burn marks on the stones still from some attack back in the late middle ages or early renaissance. Alfred could never remember. Local history did not interest him too much, and no one could settle on the date anyway. Some said it happened during the reign of Queen Elizabeth when some of the old Catholic churches were being burnt down. Others said it was during the time of Oliver Cromwell. Still others said it was a much more ancient and diabolic attack from early in the church’s history. Whatever the truth was, no renovation was allowed since it was deemed a historical landmark.

When Alfred reached the forest’s edge the mist became even worse. “It’s going to be damn near impossible to find mushrooms in this mist,” he said to himself. “Oh well, in I go.” With that he plunged into the wood. The trees were close together in this small wood and blocked out whatever sunlight might be burning the mist off outside of it. Alfred put his headphones in his ears and was listening to music as he searched, none too carefully. He yawned, another thirty minutes and he would simply give up and tell his mother there were no mushrooms yet. Off in the distance Alfred saw a light. As he walked closer to it, he could tell it was several lights, as if from torches. Wondering what on earth could be going on he decided to walk towards them.

If Alfred had not had his headphones in he would have been surprised still to be hearing music. He would have heard music that could leave no listener unmoved. It was both morose and jovial. It sounded both as if it were the music of another world and yet as if it were the rocks, trees, streams, Nature herself singing this song. But all Alfred could hear was his own music pulsing through his ears as he walked ever closer to the torches, looking like phantoms of red and orange in the mist.

Although Alfred could not hear the merry voices and beautiful music, he could smell the food: roasted meat, delightfully prepared vegetables, and wine. The mist obscured his sight even more as he ventured closer. He was quite near the torches and could almost taste the food when suddenly all the torches vanished. The dark enclosed his senses and he fell.

“I must have fallen asleep,” said Alfred out loud as he pulled his headphones out of his ears and stowed them in his pocket. He looked around confused. “Well,” he thought, “I must have been more tired than I realized this morning. Imagine me thinking there was a party going on out here in this mist, this early in the morning.” He looked around for any signs, but all he saw was a fairy ring, mushrooms in a perfect circle with one enormous mushroom directly in the middle.

“Well, today’s my lucky day,” Alfred said. “Just the mushrooms Mum needs for her soup. I think I’ll grab this big one first.” Alfred reached down, but as he did so he knocked the top off the mushroom before he even got his hands round its base.

“That’s not a very kind way of introducing yourself, knocking off my hat, Alfred Perkins.” Alfred looked around. “Down here, my son. My how you humans persist in not seeing what’s right before you. I said down here.” Alfred could not believe what his eyes beheld. Standing before him not more than two feet off the ground was a brown, dry looking figure with a sort of green tunic and shoes on. It had almost no nose and its eyes were a loam brown, and it appeared to have no teeth or discernible ears. All Alfred could see at the moment, however, was a talking mushroom without its cap.

“Well, it seems I will have to re-collect my own hat. Oh, and don’t be worried, my son, you are not dreaming. I promise you I am quite real. My name is—” The creature bent over to pick up its cap and Alfred took his chance and ran.

Alfred ran past several other collections of mushrooms, shuddering as he did. “I was still half asleep,” he told himself. “I couldn’t find any mushrooms, laid down, and fell asleep dreaming of fires and talking mushrooms. Yes, that’s it. There can’t be such things as talking mushrooms. There just can’t.” Alfred stopped running when he reached the church. He needed to collect his thoughts before he got back home. He decided to tell his mother that it was too soon after the rain for there to be any mushrooms yet.

“Well, no mushroom soup today, then,” his mother said when he arrived back at home. “You look a little put out, why don’t you lay back down.”

“That’s alright, I’ll go see if Dad needs me in the brewery.”

Alfred went down into the brewery where he found his father next to a large wooden beer barrel. “Alfred!” He shouted. “Just in time, my boy. I was about to do a little taste test. I’ve got a new amber ale I want you to try.” Alfred’s father took great pride in his beer. It was part of what gave The Broken Spoke its charm, all house brewed cask ale. Alfred was lost in thought. He wandered out of the cellar, leaving his father to his brewing revelries and spent the rest of the day in a kind of a stupor. He helped his parents in the garden, milked the cows, fed the chickens and served in the inn at night.

Alfred was collecting mugs and pint glasses outside when he saw him. Old Mr. Cyning was sitting outside, as he had to nowadays, smoking his pipe. “How old is he now?” Alfred thought to himself. “He seemed ancient when I was a little kid.” Old Mr. Cyning was old indeed, probably the oldest member of the village of Carlisle. If you wanted to know anything about the history of Carlisle or Britain in general he was the man to ask. He could tell you stories about Alfred, Merlin, and Gildas; or about Churchill and the War. He noticed Alfred staring at him, took a big puff on his pipe, blew out a glorious smoke ring, tamped his pipe, placed it back between his teeth and said, “Bee in your bonnet, Alfred?”

“Just a bit distracted today, Mr. Cyning.”

“Yes, I heard you fell asleep out in the woods. Right next to fairy ring, if young Sammy’s eyes didn’t deceive her.”

“Oh, um, would mind not mentioning that to my mum. I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms for her soup—”

“Your mother makes a damn fine mushroom soup.”

“Yes, well I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms, but I must’ve fallen asleep and had a terrible dream. When I woke up I forgot all about the mushrooms and ran straight back home.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Cyning. Taking a long draw on his pipe, he closed his eyes. Alfred thought he had fallen asleep when suddenly he heard Mr. Cyning murmur, “And what was your dream about?”

“Um,” said Alfred nervously. “I can’t really remember, mushrooms I think. A-a talking mushroom.” Alfred did not want to say too much. He was not sure which frightened him more, the idea that people might here him, or that Mr. Cyning would believe him. Oliver Cyning was well known for believing the unbelievable. He had a reputation that inspired both a kind of reverence at the breadth of his knowledge and an incredulity at the things he found credulous, as Alfred well knew.

“Damn,” swore Mr. Cyning.

“Sorry?” Alfred replied.

“My pipe’s gone out. Can you see if your mum or dad have any matches I can borrow?”

“Sure,” said Alfred. Not at all unhappy to have the subject changed. Or so he thought at first. When Alfred returned with the matches Mr. Cyning was gone. Alfred could not help feeling a little let down. It would have been nice, as well as terrifying, to have Mr. Cyning believe he really saw a talking mushroom. Alfred thought back to those days as a child when he listened to and believed every word Mr. Cyning said. A small part of him missed those days.

That night, as Alfred drifted off to sleep he really did have a dream, but not about talking mushrooms. He was walking in Fey Forest when he saw the torches again. This time they were much clearer. He could hear the music as well. The music made him feel brave, but sad, as if he was meant to be the last defender of a dying cause. It gave him the kind of courage not to overcome insurmountable odds, but to be defeated with dignity and hope. The music was nothing, however, to the people he saw there. They were pure beauty: men and women, feasting, laughing, singing, drinking, looking as though the belonged to a medieval tapestry rather than the woods just outside a twenty-first century village. Their clothes were magnificent, bright blues and greens and golds, reds and yellows, no color seemed missing. Yet the clothes were not ostentatious, nor opulent. They were the colors of the woods themselves in early summer when everything was blossomed.

As Alfred drew nearer he found that he could not quite make out what they were saying. It seemed clear that they spoke English and yet the dream kept him from comprehension. Suddenly the scene changed. The lights of the beautiful people turned blue. Stern, determined looks washed over their merry faces. Weapons were drawn by men and women alike: bows and arrows, swords, clubs, knives, daggers, lances, axes. Horses appeared, as if commanded, but Alfred saw no one go for them or call for them. Some mounted, others remained standing and they went forward as if for battle. What happened next was a complete mystery for just as the enemy of the beautiful people was about to appear, Alfred awoke.

“Alfred, dear,” he could just discern his mother calling, “you said you would look for mushrooms again today.”

“Be right out, Mum,” he mumbled in reply.

Alfred splashed cold water on his face, dressed and went out into another misty morning. He took his time walking to forest. Whether it was because of the dream or being woken up suddenly he could not decide, but he left his headphones behind. Alfred stopped to look at the church as the sun was just beginning to rise over its steeple.

“Have I ever told the story of how this church was nearly burnt down?” said a familiar voice behind him.

“Mr. Cyning,” said Alfred both startled and relieved, “where did you go yesterday? When I came back to bring you your matches you had gone.”

“Hmm? Oh, I found some in my pocket and had a sudden urge to take a walk in the forest.”

“You did?”

“Yes, your story had me interested. I believe you told your mother there were no mushrooms, yes?”

“Yes,” Alfred said a little dejectedly. “I didn’t want her to think me mad for running scared out of the forest.”

“Mmhmm. Is that where you’re headed now?”

“It is. She really wants those mushrooms.”

“Would you mind if I joined you? I do like a good walk in the morning.”

“Sure,” Alfred replied, hoping for an opportunity to discuss his latest dream.

“You know,” Alfred said slowly, “I don’t think you have ever told me your version of what happened to St. Nicholas’s.”

“Oh! Well then, you are in for a treat.” Alfred only half-listened while he and Mr. Cyning walked closer to the woods. He thought he must be hearing him wrong, for when he would occasionally tune back in he heard words like goblins, trolls, feys. He thought Mr. Cyning must have started in on a fairy tale.

“No, Mr. Cyning,” Alfred said exasperatedly. “I mean the real story of what happened to the church.” However, as Alfred said this he turned and noticed that Mr. Cyning was no longer next to him. He found himself lost in a fog in the forest. “Now where did Mr. Cyning get to? Where did I get to, for that matter? It wasn’t this foggy when I got up this morning.” Alfred looked around but did not recognize where he was in the forest. He kept trudging forward, occasionally shouting “Mr. Cyning!” thinking the old man had gotten lost in the fog as well.

Alfred walked for what seemed hours, knowing that the right thing to do was to stay in one place and wait for the fog to clear but being unable to do so. It was as if something was drawing him further and further into the forest. Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, Alfred saw before him the torchlights, just as he had yesterday morning and in his dream. This time there was no music. He could make out the sounds of voices, but could neither see their owners nor understand them clearly. The tone, however, was clear: anger. It was a stern anger, even a proper anger, but it was anger nonetheless. The whole forest seemed full of it.

Alfred proceeded as quietly as he could, moving ever closer. He began to make out the forms of those speaking. They were the beautiful people from his dream. He was staring in disbelief as he continued to edge closer when suddenly SNAP. Alfred trod on a small twig. The torches disappeared in an instant and everything went dark.

Alfred awoke on the ground, once again next to a circle of mushrooms. He was feeling himself to make sure no permanent damage was done when he heard a voice nearby. At first he thought it was Mr. Cyning. “Thank goodness,” he said aloud. “I thought I would never find you.”

“I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Well, at least we’re together again. Maybe now we can find our way out of the blasted forest.”

“Oh I don’t know about that. Who would watch over my mushrooms?”

In horror did Alfred turn around to see the thing to which the voice belonged. It was the talking mushroom again. “B-but—” he stammered.

“You’re not going to knock my hat off again, are you, my son?” asked the mushroom.

Alfred’s head was swimming. A blackness descended on his eyes. He could just hear the voice saying, “Goodnight” as his head hit the ground and Alfred knew no more.