Blogpost:
Nils Visser
Een fragment uit Escape from Neverland
The path ambled deeper into the forest over reasonably flat terrain. The woods were airy and bright, the young leaves sprouting from trees yet to form dense foliage. As the path meandered back towards the canal I turned a corner and gasped. The trees were further apart from each other here and the ground was carpeted by blue bells, forming a purple haze everywhere I looked. The path narrowed and I felt the flowers lightly brush my stockings as if in a fond greeting. Just then the clouds overhead split and the sun burst through, lighting up the bluebell sea around me to reveal their perfect glory.
I decided to stop for a while and perched myself on a fallen tree trunk by the side of the path. I fished a half-empty pack of rolling baccy from the small right pocket of my dress, just about all which would fit in there, and then retrieved a pack of rolling paper from the other pocket. As I made my roll-up I grinned at the foolishness of celebrating nature’s fresh air by having a smoke.
“It’s like I can’t handle too much oxygen at once,” I told the tree trunk. “Not used to it see. This is vital breathing apparatus for me.”
I lit the gret, then sat happily on my tree, smoking and surveying my new empire; drinking in its purple splendour and fully understanding why all those wee birds sounded so damn cheerful. Part of me felt at home here, another felt totally out of place. I hadn’t had the time to grab my coat when I had fled wildly from the care home earlier that morning. I was just wearing a blue summer dress which looked sweet till you came close enough to discern that the seemingly innocuous white patterns were swirling human skulls large and small. Black stockings and combat boots completed my attire. Not quite countryside attire.
Maybe I would just stay here, build an outlaw camp and flip the world my middle finger. I didn’t need them anyway and they certainly didn’t need me. I grinned as I observed the antics of two squirrels that were playing hide and seek; circling a broad tree trunk again and again, ever in astonished surprise when they spotted the other.
After a while I continued on my way and soon had to bid a regretful goodbye to the bluebells as the trees thinned out and grassy patches first indented the flower carpet and then replaced it altogether until I was walking through a meadow. The grass was tall and dotted with white and yellow wildflowers resplendent in the sun that was now gaining enough strength to stroke my bare arms and shoulders with pleasant warmth. A few rabbits dashed away when they became aware of me.
My attention was drawn to strange shapes that loomed up ahead. Small blobs of grey at first to which I paid little attention but as I got closer and they grew larger their contrastive oddity started puzzling me. The grey colour formed the biggest contrast at first because the forms seemed organic, curling and folding in a natural manner. As I got closer however it became clear that they didn’t grow out of the earth but were manmade like some sort of abstract sculpture. It wasn’t till I was only separated from the forms by an old moat that I recognised the remnants of buildings.
I had always thought ruins were far more angular, the rubble pillars and walls here were rounded by exposure to weather and time. The irregular sandstone rocks they were built with had weathered into grey, though various hues of ochre still showed here and there. The broken arches of former windows and doorways reached outwards like limbs, forming outstretched fingers and pointy beaks.
I was intrigued and I followed the path along the moat until I came to a small wooden bridge that led across. There was no signpost giving further information about the place -or forbidding access- so I walked across the bridge and some way into the complexity of the ruins till I had reached what seemed like the middle. I was surrounded on all sides by weird curvaceous serpentines of sandstone, some rising as much as twenty feet into the air.
“We doant get much in the way o’ visitors here,” a man’s voice startled me. “So what does ye reckon? Worth the trek from town, surelye?”
I spun round. The man who had suddenly appeared behind me was old, in his sixties I guessed, an amiable face creased by laugh wrinkles with the most remarkably clear and bright blue eyes. They seemed to speak volumes. Intelligence for one, but also omniscient knowledge, like he already knew all about me. His hair was grey with remnants of blond and reasonably short; I could only see some of it as the rest was covered by one of those old fashioned working man’s caps. He wore a green wax coat and brown corduroy trousers which were tucked into leather boots that looked ancient and worn. A brown linen bag hung from his shoulder.
“How do you know I am from town?” I asked guardedly.
His eyes twinkled and he looked me up and down in an exaggerated fashion, as if that was enough to answer my question.
“Anyhow, what business is it of yours?” I added, peeved by his manner.
“By Geemeny! We’ve ournself a tough nut here, surelye. Streetwise alikes a middling alley cat,” the man beamed. “Should I be afeared o’ ye?”
He talked funny, using weird words in a sing song intonation, stressing his ‘r’s and switching some his ‘i’s and ‘e’s. But smiles are my weakness and his was genuine. The man seemed harmless enough though his speech was odd and I relaxed somewhat.
“Outyer tis considered good manners to greet a passer-by and scorse pleasantries,” he added but not in a manner which was reproving, just a matter of fact statement.
“I am from town,” I agreed.
“And a quick learner I does reckon,” he smiled approvingly. “Runaway are ye?”
“Yes. No!”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow and I almost had to laugh.
“I just needed to get away for a bit,” I explained. “Place is like a rat cage you know?”
He looked serious for a moment, then nodded.
“Aye, that I does. There is everything o’ something and something o’ everything there I reckon. But a fair shatter o’ smeech, surelye.”
I didn’t get any of that but somehow it sounded like an accurate description so I nodded.
“Folk call me Willick, Willick be mine forename, and Maskall be mine aftername.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Wendy,” I mumbled.
“Well, I be pleased to meet ye Wendy,” he said as if he meant it. “Ye’ve an aftername?”
I frowned.
“Yes, it’s the only thing my parents gave me,” I explained. “I don’t use it.”
He nodded in understanding. Somehow I perceived that he wouldn’t mention it again. I was beginning to warm to him at a speed which surprised me.
“And what brings you here? To the woods I mean?” I asked.
“Oh, I live thereaways,” he waved vaguely in the direction of the woods looming over the northern side of the ruins where the meadows reached an end. “I be hoping to meet Puck down disyer way today, howsumdever, I reckon that young mawkin have loped off again.”
“Puck?”
“Aye, he looks alikes a wodewose. Seen him have ye? ”
I shook my head.
Willick looked around at the ruins.
“Nice enow place on a sunny day disyer St. Lewinna’s Priory,” he remarked. “Howsumdever, naun a place to visit after the sun sets.”
“How did it get these shapes? Who is St. Lewinna? Why isn’t it nice? Is it a ghost story?” I demanded.
Willick laughed and his eyes laughed with him.
“Tis an old place, gwoan all the way back to the Dark Ages, long ago,” he explained. “I doant hold much with shims, surelye. Howsumdever, disyer woods have all manner o’ places that… well, they be energised as ‘twere. They hold unaccountable energies.”
I remembered the feeling I had when I passed the Old Gasworks earlier that day and nodded.
“And this isn’t a positive place then?” I asked. “There are good places too? Where?”
Willick examined me inquisitively, like he was seeing me for the first time again. Then he came to a decision and nodded.
“Best ye come along then I reckon, tis anigh.” he said and then strode off towards the bridge across the moat without looking back to see if I was following. I didn’t hesitate. Following strange men to unknown destinations isn’t the wisest of things to do but I felt comfortable with this bloke, the rarity of which was somehow doubly reassuring.
Willick had a healthy stride for an old man and I had to rush to keep up with him as he took a left and led us onto a path that wandered into the woods. Once again I was struck by the beauty of the bluebells which grew in abundance here as well but now offered a visual spectacle of extra dimension because the ground began to rise and fall and then became hilly altogether.
“How come those ruins don’t have info signs or anything?” I wanted to know.
“Ye be axing why English Heritage doant build a parking lot, a ticket booth and a souvenir shop there?”
“Exactly.” I recalled some school field trips to just such destinations where some poor enthusiastic teacher would be rewarded for efforts to get us out of classes for the day by collective disinterest and acts of vandalism.
“Tis private property,” Willick explained. “Ye were trespassing to be sure. Howsumdever, the owner, she doant bother to have it fenced off all-along-o’ so few folk visit the priory.”
“Who’s the owner?” I felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Just imagine owning a place like the priory.
“Lady Malheur,” Willick answered.
The name rang a bell.
“From the castle?” I asked. There was a great big fancy moated castle north of Odesby called Malheur Hall. I’d never been there myself but had seen a few pictures of it on postcards on display in the High Street.
“Jes so. Malheur owns most o’ the Wyrde Woods. They’ve never encouraged visitors. Except those what pay to visit the castle grounds.”
“Are we trespassing now?” I felt a secret thrill.
“Naun, woods and hills be privately owned, but even Lady Malheur is to respect the right o’ public way. Puck now, he be trespassing all-along-o’ that him opted to live on hern land without axing. The young scaddle is to be evicted.”
I didn’t understand much of the latter part of his explanation and decided to ignore it.
“Good. Where are we going now?”
“To the Giant’s Grove.”
“What’s that?”
“Ye’ll see soon enow,” Willick looked sideways at me. His face was still friendly enough but there was sternness in it now. “Ye be realising we’ve already passed three deer?”
“Really? Where?” I looked behind me.
“Aye, anigh disyer path. Fallow deer. Howsumdever, they’ll freeze, ye see, all-along-o’ that they hear us coming.”
“You think I talk too much?” The implicit criticism felt like a blow. I wanted him to like me and as usual was ruining everything already. For a brief moment a familiar anger flared up. Anger at Willick, at myself, at the world in general.
“I reckon,” Willick regarded me thoughtfully. “That ye’d be benefitting from yern escape from the rat cage more if ye doant jes walk through the woods, but tries to experience it. Ye does seem to jump from one thing to another…” He waited till I reluctantly nodded affirmation, and then continued, “Try to focus on the woods, soak them up as ‘twere.”
“’Kay,” I agreed as demurely as I could manage. I wanted to see what that Giant’s Grove was about so I kept quiet and tried to focus on the woods around us as we continued on our way.
The path climbed steeply to the top of a low ridge where a grassy clearing offered a wide view. I stopped and looked around in wonder. We had climbed higher than I had realised and behind me I could see St. Lewinna’s Priory at the edge of the broad meadows through which meandered a multitude of waterways. These joined into a single river that flowed to Odesby, which seemed almost quaintly picturesque on the horizon. To my left I saw the edge of the woods bordered by a patchwork of farmland and to my right the woods seemed to roll on forever, lapping like a green sea against the shores of islands formed by prominent grassy rounded hills, one closer by and two further away.
I determined that I would climb those hills as soon as possible. I turned around, the path led steeply downwards again and Willick was waiting patiently by a gaping cave-like entrance in the tree line. The tree tops descended into a narrow valley and then rose again to a hill that was somewhat higher than the one I was on. The top of the hill was crowned by a clump of trees which were spectacularly tall, rising twice over the surrounding forest. That had to be this Giant’s Grove where Willick was taking me.
Driven by anticipation I skipped down the path toward Willick.
“It’s beautiful here!” I exclaimed.
“Aye, tis lamentable purty,” he sounded pleased.
I was full of questions of course, but remembered what Willick had said about experiencing the woods so I kept my mouth shut again, though the bluebells failed to captivate me for the first time that day and the other trees seemed dull and boring now. I couldn’t wait to get a closer look at the Giant’s Grove and soon enough we were climbing once again. The forest thinned out somewhat and suddenly the giant trees came into view, much closer now and all the more impressive. The trunks were unbelievably wide and rose up in vertical perfection, forming two score or so of red columns that supported large green cones so high up I couldn’t even identify individual branches or leaves when I stood a mere ten feet from the nearest giant.
I felt humbled and awed by the trees, they must have been ancient. I threw an inquiring glance at Willick. He nodded.
“Tis alright for ye to bid them a good day.”
I resisted a What-The-Fax moment; there was no way I was going to hug a tree. But I was kind of curious to see the tree closer up so I walked to the nearest one. As I got to it I looked upwards and my head started spinning. The trunk seemed to rise upwards forever. The upper branches and conical crowns seemingly just as distant from me now as when I had first spotted them. I swayed on my feet as I tried to comprehend the height of the trees which left me in vertigo. I lowered my head to face the tree normally, shaking my head briefly as if that would readjust my giddy brain. I stretched out my arm to let my hand rest on the bark for support. I was expecting steel solidity but to my surprise the bark was so soft it felt like a sponge, gently absorbing the pressure of my hand.
“It’s like it’s a living being,” I exclaimed, immediately realising the stupidity of it. Trees are living beings. DUH.
“Tis generally-always so,” Willick nodded but he didn’t laugh at me.
I smiled foolishly.
“I meant… trees generally just stand there all day. Sure, they do important stuff with oxygen but they are not fun like cats or dogs. These trees seem like fun though.”
I looked up again. These would be a challenge to climb.
“Most-in-general trees be fun when ye stop for a proper gander,” Willick’s eyes sparkled. “Howsumdever, ye’re right about the Giant’s Grove, they be bettermost trees. These be sequoia sempervirens, Californian redwoods.”
“In England?” I asked incredulously even as my eyes resting on the evidence right in front of me.
“Aye,” Willick positively beamed. “A hundred and fifty years old these be, surelye. Long ago, in Victorian days some rich eccentric folk collected trees, so they does. They’d saplings or seeds brought in from all over the wurreld: Asia, the Americas, Australia and thereabouts, a middling stride from Sussex, surelye.”
“One of the Malheurs?” I guessed and stood up to walk a bit closer to the trees.
Willick nodded, “There be a dozzle more odd bits and pieces in the woods, howsumdever, disyer trees crown the collection.”
“The Giant’s Grove,” I looked back at him.
“Aye, most local folk think they’ve been round longer than that, they associate these giants with them giants on the twin hills. Howsumdever, twere Oscar Malheur what planted them here, naun those two giants on the hills.”
“You mean to say there are giants here?” I snorted. “Pull the other one.”
“Oh all sorts here in the Wyrde Woods Wenn. Witches, forest sprites, giants, wodewoses, dragons and a Faere Fey with seven Farisee maidens.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, are you parring me?” I felt a wave of irritation rise; did he think I was a fool? Damn, the guy had a good poker face; he just kept on beaming sincerity and speaking in a tone that was utterly serious. But I felt like he was treating me like a small girl now, telling me fairy tales, dissing me. I was a Neverlander, we knew better than that.
“Shims, naun. Them others, they’ve been here for dunnamy years.”
“Yeah right, and they all lived happily ever after.”
Willick’s face briefly contorted into an expression of grief and pain that unsettled me.
“Naun all o’ them,” he spoke softly, casting a glance at the redwoods. Then he cast an inquisitive look at the sun and resumed his normal tone, “If ye be wanting to make it back to Odesby afore dark, ye’d best be thinking o’ making a start dappens the sun sets.”
It was no more than a friendly suggestion, not a command. But being treated like a small kid had made me become unreasonable. I did that a lot. It was frustrating, because I was fully aware of overreacting at those moments, but it was like my common sense could only look on in dismay as it was overridden by something else inside of me. Something that spoke of disappointment, of never being good enough. That something now convinced me that his suggestion was typical adult behaviour, telling me what to do, sending me off and dismissing me. Like everyone else he’d had enough of Wendy already. I wanted to snarl at him that I was already sixteen, a pretty big milestone as far as I was concerned. Moreover, whereas those sixteen years may not have amounted to much next to the Californian redwoods’ age, I sure as hell felt like I was every bit as old as their 150 years in my mental age. I’d been through a lot more than most folk. That made me about three times Willick’s age and he was treating me like a small kid.
“I am not afraid of walking through town after dark,” I curled my lip, irritation surging through me now like an unstoppable tide.
“Ah doant think ye be afeared o’ that Wenn,” Willick spoke calmly. “But have ye considered the Wyrde Woods? How well does ye know yern way around?”
I had walked pretty much north from the railway bridges, returning was a matter of going south. It didn’t seem to be too complex to me.
“I can manage just fine,” I straightened my back, making myself as tall as possible, which, to my everlasting frustration, wasn’t very tall at all.
“Ye be certain now?” His eyes seemed to know better. “The Wyrde Woods can be a strange place at night time.”
“Full of dragons and wodewoses who will hunt me down for a snack?” I asked, forming an amused little smile on my lips.
“Ye never know what ye’ll meet in the Wyrde Woods Wendy,” he did not respond to my tone other than sound bemused.
But his words struck me. Was he threatening me? With what? Puff the Magic Dragon? The Big Bad Wolf? I suddenly felt uncomfortable.
(FROM: Escape from Neverland (Lord of the Wyrde Woods Book One) by Nils Visser. Paperback can be ordered at Bol.com, Amazon, Barnes & Noble)
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