Free Mythago Wood - 1 by Robert Holdstock

planking, and daubed our initials, one
set on either side of the mast. A paper sail, some token rigging, and the great
vessel was ready.
    We ran from the yard, skirting the dense, silent woodland, until we found the
stream where the launching of the vessel would take place.
    It was late July, I remember, hot and still. The brook was low, the banks
steep and dry, and littered with sheep droppings. The water was slightly green
where algal life was growing from the stones and mud below. But the flow was
strong, still, and the brook wound across the fields, between lightning-blasted
trees, into denser undergrowth, and finally below a ruined gate. This gate was
much overgrown with weed, bramble and shrubby tree life. It had been placed
across the stream by the farmer Alphonse Jeffries to stop 'urchins' such as
Chris and myself from floundering into the deeper waters of the pool beyond,
where the brook widened and became more aggressive.
    But the gate was rotten, and there was a clear gap below it, where the ship
of our dreams would pass quite easily.
    With great ceremony, Chris placed the model on the waters. 'God speed to all
who sail in her!' he said solemnly, and I added, 'May you come through your
great adventure safely. God speed the HMS Voyager!' (Our name, suitably
dramatic, was pinched from our favourite boy's comic of the day.)
    Chris let the vessel go. It bobbed, spun and whirled away from us, looking
uncomfortable on the water. I felt disappointed that the boat didn't sail like
the real thing, leaning slightly to the side, rising and falling on the swell.
But it was exciting to watch the tiny ship go spinning towards the woodland. And
at last, before vanishing beyond the gate, it did sit true upon the
ocean, and the mast seemed to duck as it passed the barrier and was swept from
our sight.
    Now began the fun. We raced breathlessly round the edge of the wood. It was a
long trek across a private field, high and ripe with corn, then along the
disused railway track, across a cow field. (There was a
bull, grazing the corner. He looked up at us, and snorted, but was well
content.)
    Beyond this farmland we came to the northern edge of the oak wood, and there
the sticklebrook emerged, a wider shallower stream.
    We sat down to await our ship, to welcome it home.
    In my imagination, during that long afternoon as we played in the sun and
earnestly scanned the darkness of the woods for some sign of our vessel, the
tiny ship encountered all manner of strange beasts, rapids, and whirlpools. I
could see it fighting valiantly against stormy seas, outrunning otters and water
rats that loomed high above its gunwales. The mind's journey was what that
voyage was all about, the images of drama that the simple boat-trip inspired.
    How I would have loved to see it come bobbing out along the sticklebrook.
What discussions we might have had about its course, its journey, its narrow
escapes!
    But the ship did not appear. We had to face the hard reality that somewhere
in the dark, dense woodland, the model had snagged on a branch and become stuck,
there to remain, rotting into the earth again.
    Disappointed, we made our way home at dusk. The school holidays had begun
with a disaster, but the ship was soon forgotten.
    Then, six weeks later, shortly before the long car and train journey back to
school, Christian and I returned to the northern spread of the woods, this time
walking our Aunt's two Springer spaniels. Aunt Edie was such a trial that we
would welcome any excuse to leave the house, even when the day was as overcast
and damp as that Friday in September.
    We passed the sticklebrook and there, to our amazed delight, was the HMS Voyager, spinning and racing along in the current; the brook was high after the rains
of late August. The ship rode the swell nobly, continually
straightening and forging rapidly into the distance.
    We raced along the bank of the stream, the dogs yapping ferociously,
delighted with this sudden sprint. At last