Читать книгу On the Edges of Elfland - David Mosley - Страница 9

Alfred was often teased when he spent time with other boys and girls his own age, especially as he grew older. The age of twelve was particularly difficult for Alfred. Nearly a teenager and having some of his friends and schoolmates already in their teens, it was deemed inappropriate by them when Alfred continued to profess belief in Father Christmas. Already in secondary school things progressively got worse as the cruelty of some of his schoolfellows increased with age.

He often found himself with his things spilled all over the ground, having them knocked out of his hands when he mentioned elves or fairies. Alfred had one friend through all of this: a young girl in his year, Winifrid Wendelyn. She would listen with rapt attention to the stories of Mr. Cyning, whether told by the old man himself or by Alfred. But even one friend can sometimes not be enough to deal with bullying.

Alfred’s parents were worried. They decided it was perhaps best if Alfred spent a little less time with his godfather. Mr. Cyning continued to tell stories in the pub, but they usually kept Alfred busy during those times.

The forest remained one of Alfred’s only escapes, but even it had become less of the safe haven he once remembered. He often took Wini with him, but she did not like it much. Alfred couldn’t blame her. The forest had changed. It began to feel colder to him: not colder in temperature, but less friendly. If Alfred continued to see things in the forest he kept it to himself now. Whether Wini ever saw anything during their trips, she did not say. There were times, however, when his parents were uncertain whether it was a fear of bullies or a fear of the forest that kept him quiet. Things came to a head one day when Alfred came home babbling like a madman.

As Alfred and Wini walked home from the forest one day in the Autumn, he looked around at his surroundings, taking in the beautiful outdoors. Carlisle is a wonderful town to see in the early stages of autumn. The leaves had already turned their different colors and were beginning to fall. The sidewalk upon which they were strolling was particularly leaf strewn. Had it not been, he might not have heard the sound of someone walking behind him. Alfred quickened his pace. Alfred had been told that certain creatures only come out at night, but the sun was slowly setting. “If we can only make it to the corner, we’ll be home free,” Alfred thought. He grabbed Wini’s wrist and began to run. Just around the corner was his house where he could shout for his mother and father to come out and greet him as he came home. Then something quite unusual happened.

Just before they reached the corner, with the footsteps behind them quickening in the leaves, Alfred found a sudden boost of bravery. He let go of Wini’s hand, ran, slid in the leaves as he stopped, about-faced and started to run in the other direction, toward whoever, or whatever, was following him. Alfred closed his eyes, involuntarily, as he made for the one following him. Thus, he did not see that nothing was behind him. As he continued to run, however, he opened his eyes just in time to trip ripping his pants and scraping his knee on the sidewalk. “Who tripped me?” Alfred exclaimed, as he sat on the concrete, nursing his wound. When no reply was returned, Alfred stood up and limped back home, not noticing a slight rustling in the bushes, nor the large ring of mushrooms next to him that bordered the side of the inn. Wini was crying, her wrist was hurt. They gave her some ice, and some ice cream, and called her parents. The Wendelyns collected their daughter and Alfred saw very little of her after this.

His parents did not know what to do with him once he got home. “I was chased by a something, I think it was a goblin,” he shouted as his parents tried to calm him down. “How can I calm down? I’m telling you, something was after me. I need to see Mr. Cyning.” His parents looked concerned.

“I’ll go get him,” his father said at last. It would not be quite right to say that in this moment George believed his son. Neither, however, would it be quite right to say that he did not. George was confused.

Jessica was no better off. Torn between her own early belief in Mr. Cyning’s stories and the pragmatism that began to set in as she settled down into family life in a family run pub, she wanted to believe her son and also to believe that evil things such as goblins could not possibly exist. She was able to console Alfred eventually, when the adrenaline wore off. She cared for his cuts, fixed him some tea and sat quietly with him awaiting her husband’s return.

Several hours went by and Jessica sat with her son in silence, holding him closely. Finally, she heard keys in the lock. The door opened and there stood Mr. Cyning and her husband. She noticed the look on her husband’s face was one of confusion, or perhaps better, uncertainty. He took her aside, “I think we should leave those two alone. Come with me and I’ll tell you what Mr. Cyning said.” What it was Mr. Cyning told his father, Alfred could not hear. He had, instead to focus his attention on Mr. Cyning who had now sat himself opposite Alfred.

“Alfred, my dear child, your father told me about the fright you had today,” he said slowly and sadly.

“It was a goblin, Mr. Cyning, I’m almost sure of it. It was chasing me down the lane. I thought they couldn’t be out in sunlight. I thought it killed them or something. You always say that they hate sunlight, but this one didn’t. Or maybe it was something else, are there other evil things in the forest?” Alfred’s eyes were wide, his voice quick.

“Yes, there are other evil things in this world. Alfred,” he said looking intensely at the boy, “we need to spend some time apart. It’s too dangerous. Today you could have—” he stopped, tears seemed to be welling in his eyes. “You’re getting too old to believe in my stories, Alfred. It’s time for you to move on from them.”

“But I don’t want to. I believe, Mr. Cyning, I believe in your stories.”

“Stay away, boy. For now you must stay away. But never stop believing.” He added in a whisper. If Mr. Cyning realized he just contradicted himself, he did not let on. He simply walked out of the inn.

Alfred, near-teenager though he was, wept. His parents tried to console him as best they could, but for weeks Alfred did little but go to school and come home again. He began to play video games and watch television, reading only occasionally and mostly for school. It took months before he ventured back into the forest. His mother began sending him for mushrooms every now again, going with him the first few times and then sending him on his own. It was even months before Mr. Cyning started telling stories at the inn again. When he did, Alfred, if not already otherwise occupied, would go to his room. Wini he altogether neglected. It was not her fault they did not speak much after the incident, or at least not wholly. She tried to talk to him about fairies, but Alfred would put on a superior air and say something about kid’s these days. She often went to the inn to see Alfred and listen to Mr. Cyning’s stories. She saw little of Alfred, but she drank in the old man’s stories. Life, for Alfred, continued this way for many years. He went to university, studied literature, and returned home, uncertain of what to do with his life.