Free The Hollowing by Robert Holdstock Page A

heavy brows. His boots were dun leather and filthy, their tops fringed with circlets of yellowed animal teeth, which rattled as he moved, crouched on his haunches. From his mouth came a powerful odour of cheese and wild onion.
    He was watching Richard, grinning.
    “You sent for me, sir?” this behemoth roared with a throaty chuckle, like a smoker’s laugh, Richard thought as he wiped dew from his face. The man’s accent was French. He extended his hand, quite slim-fingered and cool, not the brawny paw that might have been expected, and Richard shook it. “You are Richard Bradley?”
    “What’s left of him. You’ve just scared the living daylights out of me.”
    “I’m Arnauld Lacan, and I’m quite harmless. Good morning! I’m watching the edgewoods for a while and I noticed your summons on the way-marker. Good man! Helen will be glad you’ve come.”
    Glancing at his watch, Richard realised that he had fallen asleep for three hours. It was seven in the morning.
    “Where is Helen?”
    “Beyond Hergest Ridge, looking for a trickster. It’s a long way from the Station. She went off yesterday, so she might be away for some time. But we think everything should be all right.”
    Richard reached for his pack, conscious both of the powerful smell of animal sweat coming from the friendly man before him, and of his words. “Why shouldn’t everything be all right?”
    “It’s too deep to be sure,” Lacan said with a concerned frown. “It always makes us nervous to go there. But she’s been beyond Hergest Ridge before and come back OK. She knows what to watch for. Are you stiff?”
    Richard reached out a hand and the other man hauled him upright. As he stood he realised how tall the Frenchman was, probably six feet four. Without being asked, Lacan twisted Richard round and ferociously massaged his shoulders, powerful fingers stretching and bending the joints of his shoulders and back. “Better?”
    “Ça va mieux,” Richard muttered as the pressure-shock faded.
    Lacan laughed loudly. “A man who speaks my language!” he said. “I think I’m going to like you!”
    He probed around in his own pack, a bulky affair of stitched hides, and finally proffered a long, dark piece of bone and meat, which reminded Richard of a charred turkey drumstick. “How about some breakfast before we journey?”
    “What is it?” Richard asked queasily.
    “Bear. Very rich, quite dry, very good.”
    Richard stared at the tatters of flesh and sinew being waved below his nose. “May I ask from what part of the bear?”
    With a grunt, Lacan sniffed the offered gift. “That’s a good question. Hard to tell, after all this time. Does it matter?”
    “I think I’ll stick to apples and cheese,” Richard said quickly.
    Lacan shrugged. His smile was ambiguous. He returned the dry joint of bear to his pack, then indicated Richard’s own rucksack, “Customs inspection. Do you mind? It’s what you English would call ‘a formality.’”
    Hesitating for only a moment, Richard passed the pack across to Lacan, who undid the buckles and reached inside. “Aha!” he said, withdrawing the brandy bottle. But his smile vanished as he stared in disbelief at the label. Without looking at Richard he muttered, “And this, I suppose, is what you English would call ‘medicinal.’”
    “Best I could find. Sorry.”
    Lacan sighed sadly. “So am I.”
    The bottle was replaced, the pack returned. Then more seriously, “Come on. We have to get you into the wood. It’s a slow process, learning to go deep. Lytton is very keen to talk to you as soon as you are acclimatised. That will take a few days, perhaps, and you must be ready. First, I have to check some instruments at the old Lodge. But I’ll have you comfortable by nightfall. Don’t worry.”
    “I’m not worried—just intrigued. Who found out about the cricket bat?”
    “The cricket bat? Is that some sort of ridiculous English animal? Sounds preposterous.”
    “Helen thinks my