Free The Hollowing by Robert Holdstock

lay.
    As they passed, Richard still stared up into the sky, but he was aware that one horse had reined-in and was now trotting towards him. He sat up and stared at the young, grey-faced man who rode around him, watching him with the pallor and arrogance of the Manor’s new owners. This was the eldest son, a man of thirty or so. In his green parka and flat cap he might have ridden straight from Windsor.
    “These are private estates. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
    “I’m walking,” Richard said. “Or rather was. At the moment I’m resting. Good morning.”
    He had meant it to sound dismissive, but the rider kicked his horse forward and came threateningly close. The horse watched Richard through big, tired eyes. Steam was coming off its coat. It was a magnificent animal, seventeen hands at least, gleaming black, its mane tight and trimmed. It watched the man on the ground as if sorry for him.
    “The right-of-way is half a mile to your left. Return to it at once.”
    “The road into the wood … that was once a right-of-way too, I imagine. Where did it go exactly? There’s a ruined house in the wood…”
    The horseman came closer and leaned down, waving his crop menacingly in Richard’s face. As Richard started to stand up in alarm, the young man thrust the short whip towards the bridleway. “Over there! The right-of-way is over there! If I catch you trespassing again I shall have you arrested.”
    And he turned and galloped towards the Manor.
    Exasperated and angry, Richard walked slowly back to his house, kicked the kitchen table, and poured himself a large glass of red wine.
    It was an hour later that he finally noticed the message pinned to his kitchen noticeboard:
    A cricket bat? You danced around the fire with a cricket bat?
    *   *   *
    That evening he wrote a brief letter to his parents, and an almost identical note to his place of work.
    If you don’t hear from me for a while, please don’t be anxious. I’m teaming up with some people for an expedition into what I’m told is a pretty remote place, and it’s hard to know if I’ll get back in time for autumn. I can’t talk about the trip in detail, except to say that I’ve just realised it’s something I need to do: full story when I get back. Just one thing: if anybody from a place called Old Stone Hollow should call you, take what they say very seriously, even if you think it sounds a bit bizarre.
    He took the letter to the Red Lion to be posted, had a glass of light ale, then returned home and slept well for a few hours, the result of the nocturnal distraction and alertness that had kept him awake the previous night. Nevertheless, he was up at three in the morning. He dressed quickly, then packed his rucksack with brandy, apples, sandwiches, a compass, an adventure novel, and changes of clothing; an hour later he was walking through the same heavy mist that had encompassed the land the morning before. Now, though, he walked with purpose, and at first light, when he arrived at Hunter’s Brook and found the signpost, he spread a tarpaulin on the ground, sat down, then curled up to keep himself warm.
    He felt strangely relaxed. The chill on his cheeks reminded him of his school days, and camping on the moors, or along the Wye Valley.
    He knew without knowing that someone would come for him.

The Wildwood
    He was being shaken gently. He opened damp eyes, glimpsed the huge, dark shape above him, and for a second thought that he was being attacked by a wild animal. He yelled with fright and twisted away, looking for a rock or piece of wood with which to defend himself. When no pursuit immediately occurred, he turned back to observe the new arrival.
    The man was wearing a heavy bearskin robe, dark brown and black fur splattered with mud. His hair was long and jet black, as was his beard. A red and green feather hung, tied with twine, from a single ringlet on his right temple. Intense brown eyes sparkled with humour from below