Mythago Wood - 1 by Robert Holdstock Page A

landscapes and creatures
as wild, in my imagination, as had been the imaginary journey of the Voyager.
    It was three days after Guiwenneth's first contact with me that an idea for
seeing deeper into the woodland occurred at last; why I hadn't thought of it
before I cannot say. Perhaps Oak Lodge was so remote from the normal stream of
human existence, and the landscape around Ryhope so far from the technologically
advanced civilization at whose heart it lay, that I had been thinking only in
primitive terms: walking, running, exploring from the ground.
    For, several days I had been aware of the sound, and occasional sight, of a
small monoplane as it circled above the land to the east of the wood. On two
days the plane - a Percival Proctor, I think - had come quite close to Ryhope
Wood, before turning and disappearing into the distance.
    Then in Gloucester, on my way to the bank, I saw the plane again, or one very
like it. It was photographing the city for a land survey, I discovered.
Operating out of Mucklestone Air Field, an area of some forty square miles was
being photographed aerially for the Ministry of Housing. If I could just
convince the air crew to 'loan' me the passenger seat of one of their planes for
an afternoon, I could fly above the oak woodland and see the heart-woods from a
vantage point where surely the supernatural defences could not reach . . .
    I was met at the perimeter gate of Mucklestone Field by an air-force sergeant
who led me, silently, to the small cluster of white-washed Nissen huts that
served as offices, control buildings and mess buildings. It was colder inside
than out. The whole area was unpleasantly run-down and lifeless,
although a typewriter clattered somewhere, and I could hear distant laughter.
Two planes stood on the runway, one clearly being serviced. It was a brisk
afternoon, the wind was blowing from the south-east, and most of it seemed to
whistle through the corners of the cramped little room into which my guide
conducted me.
    The man who smiled uncertainly at me as I entered was in his early thirties,
perhaps, fair-haired, bright-eyed and hideously burn-marked around his chin and
left cheek. He wore the uniform and insignia of an RAF Captain, but had the
collar of his shirt open, and wore plimsolls instead of boots. Everything about
him was casual and confident. He frowned, though, as he shook my hand and said,
'Don't quite understand what exactly it is you want, Mister Huxley. Sit down,
won't you?'
    I did as he bade me and stared at the map of the surrounding landscape that
he had spread out on the desk. His name was Harry Keeton, that much I knew, and
he had clearly flown during the war. The burn scar was both fascinating and
hideous to look at; but he wore it proudly, like a medal, apparently not in the
least bothered by the grotesque marking.
    If I regarded him curiously, he was equally puzzled by me, and after a moment
or two's hesitant exchange of looks he laughed nervously. 'I don't get many
requests to borrow a plane. Farmers, mostly, wanting their houses photographed.
And archaeologists. They always want photographs at dusk or dawn. Sun shadows,
you see? It shows up field markings, old foundations, things like that . . . but
you want to fly over a wood ... is that right?'
    I nodded. I couldn't actually make out where, on the map, the Ryhope estate
lay. 'It's a woodland by my house, quite extensive. I'd just like to fly across
the middle of it, and take a few photographs.'
    Keeton's face registered something like worry. He smiled,
then, and touched his scarred jaw. 'Last time I flew over a wood a sniper made
the best shot of his life and brought me down. That was in 43. I was in a
Lysander. Lovely plane, lovely handling. But that shot . . . straight to the
fuel tank, and wallop. Down into the trees. I was lucky to get out. I'm nervous
of woods, Mister Huxley. But I don't suppose there're any snipers in yours.' He
smiled in a friendly way, and I smiled back, not liking to say