The Bone Forest by Robert Holdstock Page A

fight: after all, Gray-green man—myself of an alternative reality—was fully aware that our experiences in the mythagorealm of Ryhope were subtly different, so how could he be sure that at a time when he—Huxley—had failed to destroy an aggressive mythago, I—Huxley—had not succeeded? It was a sufficient bluff, I believe. Gray-green man was discouraged from the house and held to the wood, although in retrospect my decision came close to being fatal for Ash. WJ agrees with me that Ash—the
original
mythic tale of Ash—is closely related to horses, perhaps to the Horse Shrine itself, and that in her original form she was a female
shaman
who exercised particular power over the untamed horses of the valley of her origin.
    My regret is that I did not communicate with her on the subject of the primal myth, the core legend: I wonder if she might have had—
    "Daddy?"
    Huxley looked up sharply from his desk, the words in his mind flowing and becoming confused.
    "What the devil is it?"
    He turned in his chair, furious at the interruption to his train of thought. Steven stood in the doorway, in his dressing gown, looking shocked, nervous. He was holding a mug of hot chocolate.
    "What is it, boy? I'm working!"
    "Will you tell me the story?"
    "What story?"
    Huxley glanced back at his journal, laid his finger on the last line, trying to summon the words that were fading from mind so fast.
    Steven had faltered. He was torn, it seemed, between running upstairs, or standing his ground. His eyes were wide, but there was a frown on his face. "You said as soon as you came back you'd tell me a story about Romans."
    "I said no such thing!"
    "But you did… !"
    "Don't argue with me, Steven. Get to bed with you!"
    Meekly, Steven stepped away. His mouth was tight as he whispered, "Goodnight."
    Huxley turned back to the journal, scratched his head, inked his pen and continued. He had written—concerning Ash—that she might have had:
some awareness of what I believe was called the
Urscumug
? But probably she dates from a time considerably later than this primal myth.
    The mythago that is Ash can
manipulate
time. This is an incredible discovery, should it be confirmed by later study. So Ryhope Wood is not just a repository of legendary creatures created in the present day… its defensive nature, its warping of time, its playing with time and space… these physical conditions can be imparted to the mythago forms themselves: Ash's magic— perhaps legendary in her own time—seems to become
real
in this wood. WJ and myself
have
traveled through time. We were sent, separately, to an event that had occurred in the cold, ancient past, an event of such power (for the minds of the day) that it has drawn to it not just
our
space and time, but others too, similar times, alternatives, the stuff of fantasy, the stuff of wilder dreams.
    For one brief instant, the wood was opened to dimensions inconceivable. Gray-green man came through, returned. And for my part, my memory was affected, a dream, perhaps, like many dreams… I had thought the meadow to be newly cropped, but clearly this had been a dream, and I had misremembered.
    Ryhope Wood plays tricks more subtle than I had previously imagined.
    I am safely home, however, and WJ too. He talks of "gates," pathways and passages to mythic forms of hell. He is becoming obsessed with this idea, and claims to have found such a gateway in the wood itself.
    So: two old men (no! I don't feel old. Just a little tired!), two tired men, each with an obsession. And a wealth of wonder to explore, given time, energy, and the freedom from those concerns that can so interfere with the process of intellectualizing such a wondrous place as exists beyond the edgewoods.
    Huxley capped his pen, leaned back and stretched, yawning fiercely. Outside, the late summer night was well advanced. He blotted the page of the journal, hesitated—tempted to turn back a few pages—then closed it.
    Returning to the sitting room he