Aratheon Wicked Witch of the Woods
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Okay, I’m old. Old enough to not have to work (to earn a living) any more. I could go on about the changes I’ve seen in my life, from the first jet aircraft, through computers which filled whole rooms, to phones which fit in a pocket, connect to the internet, have more computing power than a 1950’s mainframe and hold whole books in memory. I could ramble on about changes in society, discourtesy and so on. But I won’t. Life today is what it is, and I wouldn’t want to be separated from my netbook computer or phone.
I was married over forty years. Camille took a clueless nerd (not that that was the term in use back in the day) and made me what I am today. Part of which is, I suppose, ‘environmental activist’. Which is really just a fancy term for someone who protests when developers want to flatten ancient woodland to build new houses, or drill to ‘frack’ for gas.
I’m not an extremist, in my estimation. I have a car, though I rarely drive it and am seriously considering getting rid of it; not because I feel guilty using it at all, but rather because it’s not worth what it costs to keep it. If I want to get around I have a motorbike. I know plenty of people my age who get around on pedal cycles, but I like my bike, and, dammit, it only burns about a gallon of petrol in eighty or ninety miles. I know I’ve got my senior citizen travel card, so I can use the bus, but, I ask you, which is better, standing waiting for a bus, or straddling a motorbike and just going?
When Camille died – a lifetime sufferer from asthma, the city pollution pushed her over the edge – I was bereft. Still am, to an extent. But I don’t have an ailing wife to care for any longer, so I can get out and about. Of course, I’d give that freedom up in a heartbeat to have her back.
Anyway, I can set off, perhaps for a day, perhaps for longer. I can visit places. Marvel at scenery, explore ... oh, whatever appeals ... to distract me from my loss.
One of my favourite places is not far from the city, a National Trust estate. Once upon a time, it was a place for sheep and gritstone quarries. Much longer ago, the first metal-workers built what we now call ‘hill forts’ on high places round about. They probably weren’t ‘forts’ as we understand today, but there. Even earlier, people who used stone to make their tools erected stones in circles, why, we don’t really know though we guess at religion.
My favourite place in the whole estate is a narrow gorge, only a mile or so long, with a fast-flowing stream in the bottom and ancient woodland each side. The trees are full of character and I never visit without imagining beings from the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien, or perhaps Marion Zimmer Bradley. Occasionally, I’ve thought for a moment that I glimpsed an Ent, or an elf. I can go, wrap my arms around an ancient oak, or a stately beech, let tension drain away.
Of course, it’s not always a place to be alone. One can usually find a quiet place, but most of the time there are people around. Usually, they are sensibly dressed, outdoors people; ranging in age from child with parent up to nonagenarian. But there are others, different.
Let me explain. If I go into town, it’s a University town, and there are a lot of young people. Many of them are female and skimpily dressed, regardless of time of year or weather. I may be old, but I still appreciate a pretty girl. But there’s pretty, and there’s pretty. On the whole, I’d rather see a young lady dressed for hiking than half-dressed with bare midriff, arms and legs. I mean, I like legs. I like them a lot, but ... In Padley Gorge, the young ladies I see who aren’t hikers don’t dress like that. They stand out because they are graceful and elegant. Come to think of it, they aren’t all that young, but they do share the grace and elegance.
From time to time, I may be sitting and leaning against a tree, or perched on a log or boulder, just soaking up the ambience. Doing that, I’ve been approached on occasion by ... people. Mostly female, but not always. But always dressed ... differently. One I’ve seen more often than the others, a pretty girl – maybe woman – with silvery hair. Slim, with a pretty laugh. In a dress. Gown?
The first time we spoke, I was sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, listening to the birds making their various calls in the surrounding trees.
“Hello, Bert.”
You can imagine I was surprised to be addressed by name, and familiarly. “Hello,” I said, quizzically. “Have we met?”
“Oh, no, though I’ve often seen you here. With your wife, though not recently. She called you ‘Bert’. I hope you don’t mind my calling you that?”
“No. I don’t mind – everyone calls me Bert. I used to come with my wife, but she died a few months back. This is a sort of refuge. I almost feel as though she’s here with me, you know – we were here together so often.”
“Would you rather I left you alone? I am Betula, by the way.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I’ve always enjoyed the company of pretty young ladies. Betula, a pretty name for a pretty girl.”
She smiled cryptically. “You think I’m young, then?”
“Seems so, to me.”
“Perhaps you should not judge by appearances.”
“Perhaps so. But you are very pretty.”
She smiled again. “Thank you. And you are a handsome man. And a gentleman, it seems.”
I smiled too, recently an unfamiliar expression, and one my face took a second or two to adopt. “But old. Betula. Hebrew for ‘maid’, I think.”
Still smiling, she shook her head. “Also a name for the silver birch. You have a lot of living to do, Bert.” She patted my shoulder. “I will leave you in peace for now.”
So for another hour or so I sat, catching ephemeral movements out of the corner of my eyes, listening to the birds and the tinkle of water in the stream, before setting off home.
At seventy – something ... it was odd to think of having a ‘lot of living to do’. But I did think. Booked a hotel just outside the M25 and rode the bike south. For some time I’d had in mind visiting Salisbury Hall, now the home to the De Havilland museum. De Havilland no longer exist as a separate company, but in the past were responsible for some very significant aircraft; Gypsy Moth, Tiger Moth (trainer of many Battle of Britain pilots) Comet (both the pre-War racing twin and the post-War jet airliner), the versatile Mosquito bomber/fighter/reconnaissance/et cetera aircraft. The museum contains examples of many of their products, including the original prototype Mosquito.
From Salisbury Hall, it’s not so far to Hendon, and the RAF museum. From there, heading north, one passes the Shuttleworth Collection at Old Warden near Biggleswade, just off the A1. One way or another, I was away from home for nearly a week. I returned to my empty house to do a week’s washing, check over the bike, and think some more.
Kathleen Bird was walking in Overworld. That was something she rarely did since marrying Harry Bird, and not something which she had intended; she glanced down at her body sprawled half over her husband, as usual. She was joined by her much slimmer, equally flame-haired, daughter, who appeared as a young woman in her late teens, perhaps, rather than the toddler she was in normal life.
“Mother...”
“Aibhilin?”
“Something is drawing me,” the young woman said, pointing.
“Very well.”
Aibhilin took her hand and they moved – in that odd manner characteristic of movement in Overworld – and very soon they were inside a large, modern building, a hospice, on the outskirts of the city, looking down on the emaciated form of a woman. As they watched, the slight movement of the woman’s chest ceased. A figure separated from her, sitting up, and swinging her legs out of bed. As she stood, she saw her visitors.
“Who are you?” The question was inquisitive, rather than anything negative.
“I’m Kat,” Kathleen said, “and this is my daughter Aibhilin.”
There was a long pause before the woman looked round, and down at her body. “Oh. I am Camille ... Am I dead? Is this heaven? Are you ghosts?”
“We are not ghosts,” Aibhilin’s clear voice broke in. “Anyone can walk in Overworld with a little practice. But yes, you are, as the world would say, dead. This is not exactly heaven; rather, a stepping-stone to the next phase of existence.”
As she spoke a nurse entered the room. She approached the bed (walking through Kat in the process), shivered, frowned, and touched the neck of the body in the bed. She sighed, closed the staring eyes (she used a little light tape to keep them shut) and pulled the sheet over the face.
“If you’d like to come with us,” Kat said, “we can explain some things. Then you need to make some decisions.”
One evening I decided it was time to visit my favourite pub, out in the country. It’s an ancient place – fourteenth century, I think – which started out as a farmhouse and has been an inn for centuries. Oak beams, creaky floors above, open fires, draught ales. Oh, and food. Some of it’s fancy stuff, but just try their steak-and-ale pie. I have to be careful, or I’d double my weight.
The bar staff are mostly young, often students supplementing their income. It was Emma behind the bar. “Your usual, Bert?”
“Yes please.”
She started to draw my pint. It takes time, allowing the ‘head’ to subside a little before filling to the brim. “You know that woodland past Hollow Meadows...”
“Aye.” I did. There are two sorts of woodland. Large swathes of land are covered in firs, which every few years are clear cut and replaced with saplings, the timber going I don’t know where. It used to be pit-props. I suppose it’s posts and lumber now. I don’t get upset about that. But other areas are mixed woodland of various ages. That I can get upset about.
“They want to clear cut that to build houses,” she said, finishing pulling my pint. “There’s a petition on the counter to stop it.”
“Shit.” I don’t usually resort to crudity, but that did it. “Why they can’t use the post-industrial, brownfield sites, I don’t know. There’s so much of it.”
“Yeah, but it’d be a lovely setting for anyone with a six-figure income.”
I didn’t respond to that, but took a drink out of my glass so as to not spill any when I sat down. “Thanks, Emma. Nectar of the Gods, as usual.”
She giggled as I moved to find the petition and add my name to it.
A little research when I got home later told me that there had been a number of planning applications from high-end dwelling developers, all of which had been refused in view of the quality of the woodland. The owner of the site wanted to sell, and of course the best price was from the developers – if they could get planning permission. Anyway. I sat, drank my beer, chatted with Emma when she wasn’t busy, and in due course got on my bike and went home.
Time passed, as it does. I fell into a routine. Routines are comforting, I think. I was comfortable, financially. I had my house, so I was warm, my bike, so I could get around. A couple of days for the park, one for Padley Gorge, one for the library, one for the bike for a longer outing.
One day I was making my way down to the stream in the gorge, to a favourite place to sit and listen to the stream. It really does sound like a young girl giggling, sometimes, you know. On the bank just above I saw a couple of willow saplings, rather close together. I wondered if the park wardens might take one out to give the other room. Somehow, the idea saddened me.
Kierra
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