Free Avilion (Mythago Wood 7) by Robert Holdstock

it before, and without having seen it this time. But knowing it’s there.’
    ‘When you come to the Lodge, I’ll give you elf-shot. Or show you how to make it.’
    ‘I think I already do. But thanks, any way.’
    They were strolling along the road out of Shadoxhurst, Caylen with his hat tipped back and the shotgun, broken, across his shoulder. Jack, with his ill-fitting clothes and leather sack, was no less incongruous a figure. It was a gloomy, cold day.
    ‘Your grandfather is quite a legend here, around this place as well as other villages or small towns. But only among the elderly. People who lived here when he lived here. They always talk about the house in the wood, but no one younger takes them seriously.’
    Jack thought about that. ‘The wood is vast. I know it doesn’t seem it, but it is. It has an awareness all of its own. And it feeds on people. On their unconscious minds, as I understand it.’
    ‘You’re well educated for a wood-haunter,’ Caylen said, a curious note in his voice.
    ‘My father is an educated man. He taught me a great deal. My sister too. Poor Yssobel.’
    ‘Poor Yssobel?’
    ‘Like those children in the church, she disappeared one night. But of her own will, we think. We’re not sure. Broke my father’s heart.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘It was probably broken again when I decided to come to find the outside world.’
    ‘Twice sorry. Jack: how can it be that when we come alive we are not just the legend, but we know what we are as well? Is that unusual?’
    ‘No. Not unusual at all. I live in a Roman villa, surrounded by caves, fortresses, other places, and the mythagos that inhabit them believe they’re in the real world. But I don’t have an answer for you on the “how” of it, reverend.’
    ‘I’m not a reverend, remember? I’m mythago. Settled at the edge.’
    There was a moment’s silence. Caylen added with a shake of his head and a grin, ‘Brings a whole new meaning to a village-bound life.’
    Jack turned and gripped the older man’s arm. ‘Watch out for faeries.’
    ‘Born to the task! I know they can’t return to their hill without something to show.’
    Jack strode off ahead, breaking into a run as he returned to Ryhope. He had only gone a few paces when Caylen called out to him and he turned round.
    The man was standing there, gun over shoulder, hat now held next to his leg. ‘What do you think brought the Iaelven to the edge this time?’
    It was an uncomfortable question, but one that Jack had considered before, ‘I don’t know,’ he called back. ‘But it occurs to me: they were following me.’

Armour of a King
    Jack approached the house, fascinated by the brick face it presented against the shroud of green and shadow. He mimed opening the gate (now gone) and admiring the wild rose and fruit bushes that probably had once adorned this approach to the front door. He plucked an imaginary plum from an imaginary plum tree - he could see the pit and root marks where a small tree had once stood - then shook hands with an imaginary grandfather, who greeted him at the door.
    The door was open. Had he left it that way? Probably. He went inside into the hall, then walked through to the back of the house. There was a strange light there. No, not strange: just brighter than when he’d arrived. And there were animal sounds which he instantly recognised as the noise of chickens. Chickens? There were two ways to the back: a main door to the lawns and garden; and through the kitchen to where the chicken runs had been, and the vegetable garden had been planted. He went through the kitchen. The coops, fallen and rotting, were exposed, but five chickens were pecking around them. There was a fence at the bottom of this garden, and a rusted iron gate. The wood abutted that gate, and spread around the property, but the gardens were exposed again.
    I must be doing this, Jack thought. Like I drove back the Iaelven, I’m driving back the forest. Or is it welcoming me