‘The Forest’

A short story.

She had navigated, with great sensitivity and skill, a rather difficult situation at work; and had now received an offer to join a rival firm — one that, so it seemed to me, was held in much higher esteem than the first. But she was not in the habit of rewarding herself for her accomplishments. And so I took it upon my own shoulders to help her celebrate her success. It was for this reason that we found ourselves in a taxi driving up to The Lanchester, a spa hotel in Malmesbury, Wiltshire, in the English countryside.

We arrived late in the afternoon on a Friday, and after drinking half an Italian lager in the bar, we moved into the dining room, where we had a long meal accompanied by a bottle of Burgundy white wine. Satisfied and woozy, we drifted off to our room after that, and presently we fell asleep. In the morning, I woke up earlier than she, as I always did and, not wanting to wake her from her dreams — it was unavoidable in our flat in Chelsea — I pulled on some leggings, a t-shirt and an old hoodie, glanced at the figure lying peacefully in bed, one small foot sticking out from beneath the duvet, and slipped out.

The hotel was on the western edge of a vast estate that had once belonged to the Marquess of Kingsbury. The country house that had been his home and was now a museum stood in sprawling grounds of its own, at the head of a garden designed by the Victorian landscaper John ‘Possibility’ Greene. The closest village to Lanchester House was called Long’s Hill; but I could not see it on account of a large forest that — as I, arms folded across my chest, walking across the estate, discovered —lay in the way.

This was odd, I thought; for as far as I could recall I had not noticed a forest when I had looked at the map of the grounds on my phone to get my bearings when we arrived. I took my phone from the pocket of my sweatshirt to look again, and my warped, unclear reflection — wavy brown hair, dark lashes, deep bags under my eyes, slightly chapped full lips — looked back at me for an instant. But I had no reception, and so could not see what the map had shown me when I had checked it on the way. I put my phone away again.

It was then that I heard what I suppose you would call it a rustling, a sound like wind running through the leaves, or whistling, or perhaps some small animal in the undergrowth. I was skirting the edge of the forest now, peering into it, and a the noise came from somewhere within. I wondered then if it might be a bird, or perhaps a rabbit; I had spotted one the day before as our car had approached The Lanchester. But at the same time that seemed unlikely, for it seemed as if this sound, this rustling, had come not from one particular spot in the forest but simply from within the forest itself. At any rate, I was curious — I am pathologically curious; it irks Isabella — and so, with my hands now in the pockets of my sweatshirt, I started into the forest to see if I could find the source of the noise.

The skies were clear at that time and, though it was early, the rising sun cast light across the expanse of The Lanchester’s grounds, and for that reason it did not occur to me to take much care about where I was going. Had it been later — night or even the evening — of course I would have been cautious, more so since my phone was short on battery life and had no reception; but the likelihood of my being unable to find my way back out of the forest seemed small, and I was therefore surprised several minutes later, having ambled slowly into the forest in search of the source of this noise, becoming distracted by this or that — berries or some particularly characterful tree — to realise, with a small feeling of stupidity, that I was lost.

How on earth …? I could not have gone far. But, I thought, there was no need to be worried: the idea of getting lost in a forest on an old country estate such as this one was vaguely ludicrous, and I was sure that it would only a matter of time before I emerged into the rosy dawn sunlight again and could carry on with my walk. Besides, all I had to do was retrace my steps. I had not changed my direction: if I turned 180 degrees around and walked in a straight line, I would find myself back where I started. No problem. And so this is what I did: I turned around and began to walk back.

The funny thing is that as I did so, I had the impression that the forest was getting darker, not lighter; more dense, not more sparse. I had one of those moments then (they sometimes come about when I am talking to my mother) when you realise you not been paying attention and are jolted back to the present moment. I smiled to myself, shook my head, looked around. Now: where was I? No obvious course made itself plain to me. There was no disturbance of leaves where I had already walked; no familiar tree stump or knotted web of roots sticking out above the soil. My phone still had no reception.

I had completely lost interest in the rustling, the whisper in the trees that had, if you like, called me into this forest in the first place. Now my concern was returning to my fresh morning ramble across the fields. But there was no cause for panic. Even if I had walked in the same direction exactly since I had entered I could only be a few minutes from the edge of the forest. I had not gone far. I simply had to get my bearings — orient myself — and head back.

This, I did, in a manner of speaking, walking towards what seemed to me to be the lightest part of the wall of the trees that now encircled me. Again the sense I soon had was not of moving towards the light but going towards a darker spot; and so automatically I turned a little and began to walk in a kind of curving motion, so that I could determine behind which part of the forest the sun was rising, and so head east, in that direction. Only darkness greeted me, however; and now I began to wonder if I had misperceived the lightness in which I had walked so absent-mindedly from The Lanchester to the forest. Perhaps I had simply adjusted well to the darkness because I was out of the city, away from the light pollution that touches everything and tends to trick the senses … It seemed so dark now. So very dark.

Then the rustling. Not rustling: a whisper, a call: almost like murmurs coming from somewhere in the forest. But now these did not intrigue me. They did not interest me in the slightest. Now, they frightened me a little. And it was more on instinct than anything else I think that I turned and began to walk, a bit faster now, in the opposite direction to the noise. I barely registered the gathering darkness: I could not trust my senses anyway. I simply walked faster, and faster, stepping over roots, squeezing between trees, pushing branches and leaves away and out of my face; and all the while the forest seemed to be closing ever more swiftly in on me. My heart pounded in my chest. I had hair over my face and my hands were becoming red and grazed from running them over the harsh bark and gnarled branches of the trees. I turned left, right, turned back. I hurried forward. And more whispers, more murmurs, more peculiar sounds emanating from the gloom all around me. I could barely see now: I was squinting: squinting through the black fog of the forest: and then, in my mind’s eye I saw, at its darkest point –

At that moment, I caught my foot on something and let out a cry as I lurched forward. It was as though someone had grabbed a fistful of my sweatshirt and yanked me violently towards him. I threw up my arms to protect my face as I fell, anticipating that I would hit a tree or otherwise land face-first on a tangle of roots on the forest floor. But instead, I tumbled straight through a black mass of leaves and branches which scratched my face and hands and emerged, on the other side of them. The surface on which I landed was soft, and I could feel the heat of the sun on the back of my neck.

I fluttered open my eyes. I was lying face-down in a clearing, bathed in gold from the sun, which, as I turned, I saw was now much higher in the sky now than it ought to have been, given the time of day: it was hanging there in an empty blue expanse above me like a big bronze orb. The grass on which I lay was lush and soft and sweet-smelling and the brightest shade of green that you could imagine. And I could hear birds singing to one another from the trees. I turned over, and propped myself up on my elbows. The clearing was neat and tidy, with cropped grass and trees running in a kind of semi-circle around it. In the middle of it, there was a large round pool, its surface glittering, almost, in the summer sun. And as for the forest, it had none of the density, the inky black thickness that I had encountered.

Slowly, clumsily, and now feeling more than a little silly I picked myself up, did my best to remove the tangles and bits of leaf and branch from my hair, dusted off the dirt on my sweatshirt with the palms of my hands, and made my way over to the pool. I knelt down and peered over the side; and my reflection, clear in the cool, still blue water, looked back. Wavy brown hair, dark lashes, deep bags under my eyes, slightly chapped full lips …

‘Holly? Hol, what are you doing?’

I turned, and saw Isabella running towards me.

‘I—’

‘Where did you go? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’ve been gone for hours.’

Hours?

‘I got lost.’

I rose to my feet. Isabella threw her arms around me. I hugged her weakly.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? What are you sorry for?’

‘I’ve been running away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘From us.’

She looked up at me.

‘Hol, I know it’s difficult. But we have each other. You can talk to me.’

‘One of us has to be strong.’

‘There’s nothing weak about saying how you feel.’

I looked down.

‘I know that now.’

‘It isn’t about the big gestures, you know. It’s about the everyday.’

‘I know. I know.’

She smiled.

‘Shall we go back?’

‘Yes.’

She took my hand. And together, we went back to the hotel.