Thursday 15 May 2014

Winterwood, by Peter Shilston


Jinna scrambled over the stones of what had once been a wall and looked down the slope to the snow-covered wood below. Not a single print of any kind disturbed the whiteness, and only a gap in the trees like a low arch showed her where the path ran. The light was lowering and gloomy beneath the leaden sky, and the prospect filled her with deep uneasiness. But she patted her coat and felt the slight bulge from the inner pocket. There it lay, the great jewel. She must carry it safely through the wood to the other side, and whatever her fears, she could not turn back now. Setting her face in determination, she half walked, half slithered downwards, and, ducking under the laden branches, entered the winterwood.

Inside it was very quiet. The trees were packed so densely that there was little snow underfoot, but the darkness was greater. She could trace where the path wound itself, and there were dimples in it, as if feet had already passed that way: feet too small for a human, but making patterns unlike any animal that Jinna had ever seen. The path continued to run downhill, until she reached the bottom of a valley. Jinna found she had reached a frozen river which she must cross. She listened carefully for the sound of trickling water, which would mean thin ice that might break under her weight: even if the water was shallow, if she got her feet wet, they would freeze. But there was no sound. Jinna realized that since she had entered the winterwood, the utter silence had been broken only the crunching of her boots in the snow, and her own breathing. Somehow this was even more oppressive than the noise of things moving around her. She sensed that here in the wood it was always winter, and nothing lived. Fighting back her mounting fear, she crept carefully across the ice and up the bank on the far side.

The path rose now, until she came to the summit of a low ridge where the trees opened out. There was nothing in the clearing except an immense log, the remains of a fallen tree, half-covered in snow like the body of a frozen dinosaur. The light was slightly better here, and Jinna paused for a rest. For reassurance, she again patted the lump on her coat, and then, acting on sudden impulse, reached into the pocket and pulled out the jewel. She held it up, and even in this dimness it glowed and sparkled with its internal radiance. Never had she seen anything so immeasurably beautiful. She must save it, at all costs! But its glory only made her surroundings seem more threatening. The trees appeared to close in on her. She sensed that the winterwood hated and feared the jewel; would smother its radiance if it could. Over to her left came a sound, and then another: the first she had heard in the winterwood. Maybe it was only the soft thump of snow falling from overburdened branches, but Jinna feared it might be something far more threatening, though she knew not what. She realized she had made a serious blunder.

Quickly she returned the jewel to her pocket, and pressed on. Now the path twisted round to the right, and then to the left. Fear stalked behind her, and she walked faster and faster, her breath panting with weariness and mounting anxiety, never daring to glance back. Then, up ahead, amidst a thicket of smaller trees, she saw another low archway, and knew this was the end of the wood at last. With her escape now in sight, panic at last overcame her. She ran. Through the archway she ran: branches clawed at her face and snow cascaded over her head and back, but she had escaped now, out onto the open plain, freed from the winterwood for ever.

For a while she simply stood there, panting with relief. Then once again she felt her pocket. There was nothing. She tore open her coat and plunger her hand into the pocket. It was empty. In mounting desperation and terror she searched each pocket; every inch of her clothing; once, twice, many times. Nothing. There was no doubting it: the jewel was gone.

Gradually she managed to subdue her terror and steeled herself. She knew what she must do. Somewhere, somehow, she had dropped the jewel, and now she must find it again. Slowly, reluctantly, she forced herself back to the archway through the trees and re-entered the winterwood, retracing her steps, examining the snow on each side, stumbling with weariness, tears frozen on her cheeks, until at last her strength gave out, and she fell forward on the snow, and she died.
 
But then the clouds rolled away and the snow melted. Flowers blossomed in the grass. Jinna felt the warm sun and looked up in wonder to see birds playing on the budding trees. Then a Voice, so enormous that it filled the horizons but was at the same time gentle, spoke to her.

"You have done well", said the Voice.
"But I failed", said Jinna, "I lost the jewel in the winterwood".
"No. You were victorious. There never was a jewel. There never was a winterwood. But you fought to the very end. You have triumphed. We can now proceed to the next test".

Wednesday 14 May 2014

In a Seven Year Old Anxiety Can Present as Boredom, by Barry Tench


2B were doing ‘My Father’s Job’ that week. I recall that the lilac trees in the school playground were heavy with flower and that the purple dripped with April rain.  I searched the grey sky behind the roofs of the terraced houses opposite for some sign of the sun that would mean holidays weren’t far away. My desk lid was scored by the pointed ends of countless protractors, initials and dates scarred the soft wood. What if I made my dad sound interesting, and by implication insurance? Would I be forced to follow in his footsteps, to become an insurance salesman for the rest of my life?
I had watched him return home in the evening, stand in the frame of the back door and blow cigarette smoke out into the garden; walk through the house into the living room, did he ever speak? I don’t remember. He would turn on the television, open the evening paper, light another cigarette. The kettle would whistle in the kitchen but he wouldn’t turn his head to see if someone was going to take it off the stove.

I went to his office once; he’d forgotten to collect me from the dentist and I walked through town to his office. I wasn’t sure which way to go, I traced my steps back, took another street. I asked a woman if she knew where my dad’s office was. I didn’t know the name of the building but said, he is an insurance man. She pointed me up the bank to a tall grey building.
“There are offices in there young man”. 

I used to have dreams of a Tyrannosaurs Rex hunting me, crashing through the rooms of our house to where I was hiding behind a jar of pickles on the top shelf in the pantry.

I stumbled in through the glass door. The lobby of the office block smelled of damp paper, cigarettes and feet. The walls, the windows, the beige linoleum on the floor, everything looked like it was coated with a thin film of grime. I sat next to his desk as he joked with colleagues about forgetting to collect me from the dentist, he smoked another cigarette.

I faced 2B. I wanted to say my dad was a teacher, a bus driver, a shop keeper but I didn’t have time to consider the details. Miss made those ‘go-on’ eyes at me. I looked at the faces of my classmates. Is he going to cry? Is he going to piss himself?

“John what does your father do?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes he does. What job does he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where does he go in the morning?”
“He’s dead.”
“Sit down John. I’ll speak to you later”.

I walked back to my desk past Brian Evans whose father had been killed last summer when his motorbike had hit a tree. I still can’t decide if he was smiling.