we set off into the bright evening, the wind fresh on our faces. The landscape hereabout is ancient and mysterious, and it is so easy to dream. The Ridgeway drives towards an enticing horizon whilst each perpendicular track seems to wind its way into strange terrain. What might lie around the next corner?
The evening was golden with slanting low light, the fields vibrant in green and yellow, the woods rich above inky shadow, the very landscape a plastic sculpture of curving, twisting form in brilliant relief. Through this we rode, my horse and I, casting long shadows that bent this way and that as our path wound around knolls and across a verdant hillside. It was a joy to be out in the closing act of a lovely warm sunny day, a day where a fresh breeze cooled the sun-baked traveller, a day when every detail of the changing landscape was lit in sharp relief bringing joy to the heart of a perceptive man. My horse, of course, thought just of eating the brightly lit and decidedly lush vegetation.
We paused, I to think and she to graze, our purposes meeting in convenient symbiosis. Where to go, I wondered? The dark wall of the forest faced me from the west, to my left, deep in shadow. Night was falling there even as I shaded my eyes against the plummeting sun. Why not that way, I thought? Let’s chase the sun by heading westward into shadow.
I pulled the greedy mare’s head up from the grass and turned her towards the setting sun. Down the slope we trotted, over the rank grass of the short flat valley bottom, then up towards the close ranks of tall trees. There was no path here for no-one walked this way. This wood is mysterious, and few enter willingly. Not all of these, it is said, return. But I have come and gone many times, for travelling is a part of my profession.
Between great boles we slipped, their bark smooth and grey in the gloom. Just a little light filtered down from the thick canopy high above. Over writhing roots my mare stepped, placing her feet carefully. The ground levelled, then fell. Hooves kicked up ancient beech mast atop the dusty soil. A dry valley within the woods led us downhill, then at a hidden nameless rock we turned right, again to the west. It was nearly dark and we seemed to feel the way rather than see it. The air was thick as if very old, and there was no breeze at this depth. Uphill the mare trudged as I sat upright for there were no low branches in this lofty stand. Then the trees grew smaller and closer spaced, and I had to duck low several times. Finally beech trees gave way to a thick belt of shrub, like a great hedge that closed off one part of the land from another. There was one narrow path through, and I found it uncannily as one guided by some gift. So it was truly, for this was an enchanted place, and most found no path but rather wandered in aimless circles until regaining that valley to the east frustrated and tired. Foliage brushed my knees and shoulders as we squeezed through. For a few dozen paces we forced our way thus, then a broad forest floor opened up. The wood was even more splendid than its counterpart on the other side. Still there was no path however knowledge led me downhill as intuition had once carried me. The gloom lightened to a bright gloaming then suddenly I was at the forest wall. Ahead green meadows and crop land descended to a village of low wooden farmsteads, a skein of grey smoke rising from each chimney. There it was, still.
I remembered my first visit here. Tentatively I had ridden down to this unexpected archaic place, ready to flee. An old man stumbled out from the largest cottage at the centre of the village, supporting himself on a hoary stick, and asked just one question.
‘What is your gift, traveller?’
‘I am a storyteller’, I improvised. It was the right answer.
These people, I discovered, were hospitable. However they liked guests to contribute to the labour required to sustain the community. Most could labour in some way or other, but my skill was rarer. Besides, I was one of the few who had emerged through the hedge.
That first evening in the meeting room within the large house I told the story of the barrow on the ridge, which was old even to them though positively ancient to me. They were not ignorant of its history. However tales gain quality with the passage of time just as hedgerows become richer and more varied. In that smoky room, dark and filled with eager listeners, I told of how two armies had clashed, one comprising local men, the other invaders who had crossed the sea. The latter had gained ground until the local king pushed to the front of conflict shouting that the line would fall back no further. A pace behind strode his standard bearer, raven banner fluttering aloft. In that moment warriors on both sides saw the embroidered black bird take wing as if flying upon the white silk background that seemed now a living part of the sky. Victory was his! But in triumph he was struck down even as his men slew and hewed their enemies. His son, an accomplished swordsman, led the rout through to completion then commanded construction of an earthen barrow over their fallen leader. Through thirty lifetimes that barrow had endured, old bones slowly decaying at its core.
Thus was the land of my hosts linked to mine, though I walked under no illusion that their time and mine quite coincided. It was all rather peculiar, and in such things it is best not to ask too many questions. I did never quite work out when they lived, only that the wood was enchanted and the hedge especially so.
The wise mare carried me down to a familiar house, the large one in the centre of the village. There the old man lived, a fellow craftsman with words. Many were the tales that he and I had shared and compared, and much the wisdom that I had gained from him.
My second tale had explained from whence I came, for that was of interest. The villagers accepted that story: embellished, deep in allegory and light in fact. The old man alone suspected a different truth – or, perhaps, one that ran in parallel. But then it was clear from his tales that he too had traversed the way through the hedge that appeared only to a select few.
This time, having put the mare to eat hay in a stable, the old man and I fell to talking on his balcony. I asked over familiar neighbours, he after my travels. Then, noting that we might be overheard, he bade me enter his house. In the dim dusty light of the story room, he started a new tale. For the first time in years new faces had appeared from the woods, skirting the village and slipping away. Who were they? Word had arrived that darkness dogged their feet and dissent spread before their every step. Something needed to be done.
I sensed a new quest emerging.
‘The Trickster may be a found a day’s ride away’, the old man spoke earnestly, ‘it is to him that you must ride.’
