Avilion (Mythago Wood 7) by Robert Holdstock Read Free Book Online

Jack. Stretch for ten more paces. Come on.’
    Ten more paces!
    He felt as if stones were dragging at his feet. His head was hammering against a wall. Branches whipped him, water sucked him down. The screech of elementals was unbearable - almost There would be peace in running back. There would be silence and relief in returning to the lodge.
    ‘Five more paces, Jack.’
    He flung himself forward, then screamed in pain, embracing a cold marbled floor, feeling strong hands on his shoulders.
    ‘Far enough. This is far enough.’
    The hands pinned him down, but this was not aggression: the hands were holding, supporting, fingers pushed into his muscles to relax them. He had twisted round and faced the spill of light from the open doors of the church, and a woman was standing there. She hesitated only for a moment before running to him, crouching down and whispering words he couldn’t take in. Two gentle fingers on his face; soft breath on his lips. The flow of words between the woman and the priest were murmurings of urgency, then calm.
    ‘You’ve done well, Jack. You’ve extended the edge of your world.’
    ‘Julie ...’
    ‘Yes.’ She leaned down towards him, bright and smiling. ‘The little brats are in school. And the clothes suit you. The hat doesn’t. And what in the name of all that isn’t holy have you done to your hair?’
    ‘Cut it. Your suggestion.’
    Laughter. Julie said, ‘I’ll find a way to rescue it. Just stay calm, Jack. Altar wine for the boy!’
    This last was addressed to the vicar.
    ‘I’ll see if I’ve got any left.’
    More laughter.
     
    Courage!
    He was cold now, and the space he was sitting in was high and wide, and cold and grey, and the light that struck his face came through shaped windows, and some of it was coloured and confusing. A gentle hand was entwined with his, and still there was the soft breath, sweet breath. The grey-haired man was bustling about, but mostly writing in a book while almost simultaneously spooning a stew into his mouth. The food was fragrant and unusual, the texture of the meat so soft it might have been a flavoured bark fungus. Jack had eaten a little, but the pungent spices and the burning sensation of one of the meats had made him retch. A cooling drink, not unlike a weak goat’s milk, had helped his stomach calm down.
    Earlier, Julie had fussed at his hair, using scissors and a very fine comb to cut away the tangle that he had left, leaving nothing on his neck and scalp that he could touch with any confidence. But she had kept every length of hair in a paper bag - he remembered crying out that she should do so - and he clutched the bag as if it were a container of life itself.
    ‘I need to go home.’
    ‘Yes,’ Julie said. ‘You’ve come further than before. That took some doing, I imagine.’
    ‘It was . . . easier at first. Then hard. My head is a rage of noise.’
    ‘Go home. You’ve come very far.’
    Jack suddenly became aware of her, turning sharply, his face so close to hers that she pulled back slightly, then smiled, leaning forward again. He said, ‘I pushed further. But I can’t push much further than this. Perhaps it’s enough. I feel cold here.’
    She listened to him in silence; stayed silent; then said, ‘I can’t be sure of what you’re feeling. But when I tried to come to the old Lodge yesterday, I was terrified. You forced your way here against your fears. I’d like to try again: for the house. Tomorrow. If you’ll help me.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Help me overcome the terror.’
    ‘I understood what you meant.’
    ‘And we can talk?’
    ‘Yes. Of course. You might even meet my grandfather.’
    He noticed the way Julie’s breathing changed, how her whole body tensed, her heart racing for a moment, her sweat changing odour suddenly, exuding excitement.
    Whatever it was he had eaten, Jack was suddenly wretched again, and crawled to the huge stone bowl where he had earlier emptied his stomach. He retched for a second