The Bone Forest (Short Stories) by Robert Holdstock

Author:Robert Holdstock [Holdstock, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780380767816
Google: pdBCAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0380767813
Goodreads: 697179
Publisher: Avon Books
Published: 1991-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

(III)

When he had finished eating—a small bowl of thick broth and a hunk of oatcake—Inkmarker was instructed to write:

The nature of the demon is strange. It is either youthful—a form perhaps of Mercurian or Mabdagda— or it has ingested the soul of a child, and it is this struggling soul whose nightmare is expressed in the ruins. The shape of the village is bent and twisted and given an appearance that is remote from my experience. These structures are from another world, from hell. Inkmarker is attuned to the child in the demon. Through his eyes other pictures, other worlds, can be seen which are absent from my own vision. He, then, can see through the gate in the skull, into hell. I see only what the demon sends through the gate in the world. To summon the demon I shall use Inkmarker and the "journeying" mask he has so cleverly made, to call upon the child's soul. The demon may well follow, and I shall destroy it.

Hand resting lightly on the boy's shoulder, the Wolfhead returned along the rough track between the woods, to the rise of land that led to the earthworks. The day was still, now; the scent of rain was strong, bringing out the smells of the rich earth. In the trees, creatures shuffled restlessly, and Inkmarker glanced nervously about.

"What made you kill the dog and make the mask?" the Wolfhead asked.

Inkmarker clutched the wet hide tightly, glancing down at the crumpled features of the dog. "Impulse," he said. "But you told me about the ten tracks into hell… I knew about Cunhaval… I didn't kill the dog…"

The Wolfhead smiled as he walked, his gaunt face tightening. "Cunhaval: the running of a hound into the unknown region." He nodded, slightly proud that his apprentice had absorbed so much of his own secret ways. "The tracks are ancient. I myself carry all the 'journey masks,' but use only the ghost, Morndun. When I enter the otherworld, I pass in as a ghost. But today I shall try and draw the demon into our world. It is you who will do the running."

There had been more changes to the village. The stone walls that had so recently risen tall and turreted from the bank, now were crushed and decayed, overgrown with thorns and twisted oaks, small, gnarly trees that jutted from crevices and the tumbled brick. But a high pole, with a fluttering pennant, stood close to the ragged cluster of houses and ragged walls at the center of the enclosure.

Everywhere was draped in a pale, heavy mist, which hung quite still despite the sound and sensation of a cold wind blowing through the ruins. As the Wolf head led the way through the broken buildings, Inkmarker jumped and twitched at each odd sound: the whinnying of a horse, the sudden scampering of a dog, the creak of wood, the rattle of arms and armor.

Close to the well, the tattered rags of tents and pennants fluttered silently in that same impossible breeze.

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