The Wood

Eleven

Andy Dark eyed the German with both fear and amazement, watched the steady, gloating descent down the stairs. The conservation officer glanced once behind him towards the open door. If it had not been for that menacing Luger in the other's hand he would have grabbed Carol and taken pot luck on a dash for freedom. But for her sake he dared not chance it.

'So, my prison cannot hold you.' Bertie Hass reached the bottom step, advancing slowly on them. 'You British are all the same, you will never accept the inevitable. Even now in the face of defeat you fight on, risk annihilation. A mad race of people.'

'You're crazy,' Andy snapped, pulling Carol behind him. 'The war's been over nearly forty years. Germany was beaten. Your beloved Fuhrer made one big mistake, he chose to go for Russia before Britain and underestimated the winter. Just like Napoleon did.'

'Silence!' For a second that forefinger threatened to tighten on the trigger.

'How dare you speak of the Fuhrer with such lies. No decision has yet been made concerning an assault on Stalin… at least, if it has, then the details have not been released.' A flicker of uncertainty in those pale blue eyes but it went as quickly as it came.

'Ail right, have it your own way,' Andy sighed, shrugging his shoulders with a casualness which he certainly did not feel. 'Britain is facing defeat, you've caught us escaping from your own private POW camp, so what now?'

'You are spies.' The Luftwaffe pilot's gaze flicked over the cowering girl.

'And most fortunately for myself the Gestapo will be arriving here shortly. They are experts at dealing with your kind, breaking your stubborn spirit. In the meantime let us go into the room behind you, it will be more comfortable than standing out here in the hall.'

The room leading off the hall was some kind of library, Andy Dark noted with surprise, oak-panelled walls that had the appearance of having been recently polished, floor to ceiling shelves lined with leather-bound, gold-tooled books. You saw the spines, had a feeling that that was all they were; a facade, a pseudo accumulation of literary works that a stage hand might stack in a dusty storeroom after the last performance. A wide latticed window behind the roll-top desk. And a musty smell as though this place had been shut up for years.

'Listen,' Bertie Hass held up a hand, 'can you not hear it?'

Carol Embleton thought at first that thunder was rumbling somewhere, a distant electric storm beyond Droy Wood. Oh God, anybody who was away from the wood did not realise how lucky they were. It was dark outside except for flashes lighting up the sky, becoming more frequent by the second. That was crazy, it couldn't be dark yet, back in the hall dim grey light had been filtering in!

The noises outside were familiar, hit her with a force that had her clinging to Andy, whispering: 'It's the bombing again and any second. '

They were all staring out of the window at the fiery sky, watching, waiting. Carol knew what they would see, any second now. A feeling you got when you lit a firework that you knew was going to go off with a loud explosion, bracing yourself for the ear-bursting bang.

There it is,' she breathed, 'the bomber. Any second it's going to burst into flames, crash. And. he will parachute down!'

They heard the approaching plane and then they saw it, an inferno, disintegrating, showering earthwards until it was lost from view behind the dark outline of the wood, the sky now a blaze of different shades of orange and yellow. A tiny floating figure, his fall so gradual and graceful. There was no doubt that he would drop in Droy Wood.

Carol glanced behind her, her skin prickling when she saw the German still standing there. You're not supposed to be here, you should be out there. How can you be in two places at the same time?

'And still the British resist.' Bertie Hass laughed scornfully. 'See, a lucky shot has claimed one of the Luftwaffe bombers, another crew has died valiantly for the Fatherland. Their Iron Crosses will be awarded posthumously.'

'But, but what about the survivor?' Carol breathed. 'Are you going to try and find him?'

'What survivor?'

A defiant hiss, almost petulant. Childish. No, I don't see anything, daddy, and nothing you can say will make me see it. There were no survivors, an entire crew killed in glorious action.'

'But. one of them parachuted down.' You, but even I can't accept that.

'Nobody parachuted from that plane. If you saw anything then it was an illusion.'

'We must have imagined it,' Andy Dark cut in. He didn't like the way the barrel of the Luger had swung back on to them. Provocation could mean instant death. 'I guess you're right, nobody got out of that plane. They're all dead by now.'

But Bertie Hass was clearly shaken. There was no doubt that he had seen that lone figure drifting down out of the sky. He licked his lips nervously, moved back to the window and stared out, his face briefly against the glass but it did not mist up. Searching the blackness for… himself?

Andy Dark tensed, reckoned he could have jumped the other, almost acted impetuously. If Carol had not been here he probably would have risked it. That wasn't the only reason that stopped him, though. Watching Hass, seeing how the other's features changed, almost as though he did not want to look, was afraid to. Flinching, cowering, beginning to tremble as he followed the course the silhouetted bomber pilot had taken against the fiery sky. Eyes glazing. Bertie Hass felt the rush of cold air, braced himself again for the bone-shattering impact as he struck the ground, hoped that he would be killed instantly, not left a mangled heap of bloody flesh and bones with life refusing to desert him.

A welcome jerk snatching him up, knocking the breath from his body, knowing that he wasn't going to die after all. Exhilaration, a feeling of freedom which only the free-faller and the birds of the air know. Only briefly, though, because already the topmost branches of the wood were clawing for him, trying to claim him for their own; grotesque shapes that were more than just trees.

Down; struggling in the mud, extricating himself from the bog, slashing at his parachute cords to free himself. The mist was thickening, he had come to accept it now. Everything so familiar, an actor on stage for a nightly performance of a long-running play. Almost boring, wishing that you had the courage to change your lines just to alleviate it. But you couldn't. That feeling of being watched again, finding the muddy path and following it, knowing that it would bring him out at the big house, a ruin that would be transformed. His home until the war ended. It would be over soon, the British could not hold out much longer, they were on their knees already. Listening. He could not hear the bombing any more. Glancing up, the sky was dark, overcast. The city still burned though; he could smell the acrid stench in his nostrils, coughed. Frustration, an urgency to forge on ahead, begin the setting-up of his new headquarters in preparation for the coming of the German army but knowing that he had to wait. Because the girl would be coming, naked and beautiful, reminding him of Ingrid, having to fight against a stirring of his emotions because the Fatherland was a priority. The girl would be locked away, a pleasure to be savoured later.

The actor rushing his lines, harassing the other performers because he wanted to get this early act over and done with. A blurred film like a screaming express train on the screen, only slowing down at the whim of the projectionist. Pulse racing, finally sighing with relief, sweating. The girl was a prisoner in the dungeon. Bertie Hass had resisted the temptation to run his fingers over her bare flesh as she hung there on the wall. There would be ample time to indulge in those pleasures later. The trap door thudded shut, echoed eerily down the empty hallway. He shivered, the sound had a note of finality about it. He knew only too well what was going to happen next, the principal actor regretting his haste; he didn't really like this part of the play at all, wished somehow the producers could have skipped it, altered the script. He knew that at any second that oaken door on his left was going to creak open. No, not this time. Mein Gott, no! He slid the Luger out of his holster, trained the barrel on the doorway, a marksman's stance, gripping his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand. The oak door started to open, easing inwards, groaning as if those hinges had not swung back for centuries. The German's finger tightened on the trigger. This time do not delay, fire the moment you see it or it will be too late once again!

A bulky figure filled the widening gap. A florid bad-tempered face with a series of jowls unfolding below the chin, eyes almost buried in the fleshy cheeks yet penetrating, commanding; angry. Strange silken garments, gold buttons straining on a scarlet waistcoat, cream breeches that were laced below the knee, silk stockings, and hide slippers.

Fire now or your chance is gone!

The German's trigger-finger was stiff as though it had suddenly become afflicted with arthritis. He had-to force the joints to move, use every vestige of willpower he could muster, wilting beneath the force of those pig-like eyes. The Luger crashed, bucked, crashed again. Heavy slugs ripped into the woodwork of the door, threw it back, the man still standing there as though totally unaware of what was happening.

At this range Bertie Hass knew he could not miss. The trigger was becoming tighter with each shot, any second it would seize up. Now his shots were finding their mark, tearing into those fine clothes, shredding them, lacerating the fleshy jowls; three head shots but the stranger was still on his feet, not even swaying. He had to be dead, it was only his nerves that were holding him upright. He had to fall any second. A shot disintegrated the top of his head and he appeared to totter, grabbed at a doorpost to steady himself.

'Die!' Bertie yelled, and then the firing pin was clicking harmlessly. Disbelief, watching, waiting but still those eyes focused on him, angrily, mocking him. You can't kill me, German!

You're dead, you've got to be. Then came an awful realisation that had the pistol dropping from the pilot's nerveless fingers, clanging on the floor. Those terrible wounds. they did not bleed!

How long he stood there he had no idea. Daylight faded into darkness and became light again. And now the man in the doorway had moved out into the hallway and that was when Bertie Hass would have run screaming from this place, only his limbs refused to move. Those terrible wounds had knitted, healed, not so much as a scar showing.

'You can't kill me, German.' The stranger's tones were thick and nasal, thin lips twisted into a cruel smile. 'Nobody can die when they are already dead, can they?'

The Luftwaffe man's brain did not seem to be functioning, accepting the situation rather than trying to understand it. Nodding. Of course it was impossible to die if you were already dead.

'We were expecting you,' he said. The big man's waistcoat strained. 'But I don't expect you even know who I am.'

'No, sir.' Embarrassed, humble like that time the Fuhrer had let his eyes rest upon him during the course of a Luftwaffe parade. Like God himself; you would have died there and then, unquestioningly, if he had asked you.

'I am Ross Droy, the owner of these lands on which you have trespassed.' A throaty laugh. 'The last stronghold of the Droys, a bastion which will never fall. Our lands have been stolen, sold off by those who had no right to the title, but they will never take the wood from us. Not even your German army if they conquer Britain.'

Bertie flinched slightly but did not reply.

'Our war has raged for centuries,' and the other waved a hand nonchalantly, 'but still we survive. We can use you, stranger, indeed we shall use you. Look upon this place as your own, deal harshly with any who infiltrate it. There are others who live here, too, from time to time. My officers are vigilant against those who would use our lands for bringing in contraband from other countries, but unfortunately. they are not always available,' another wave of that podgy hand, 'they. come and go. But the lands of my ancestors must be protected at all times. Remember that when the mist rolls in from the marshes. '

And suddenly Ross Droy wasn't there any more. Bertie Hass had not seen him go. The door was still open, affording him a view of the interior, a richly furnished book-lined study with a wide latticed window overlooking the wood. Possibly one could see the marsh from here on clear days. An empty room. Nobody here, even the bullet gouges on the woodwork had disappeared. It might have been a hallucination; the German tried to convince himself that that was what it was. The war took its toll of battle-scarred veterans in a number of inexplicable ways.

Except that this was no illusion. Over the weeks, months, years, he had seen the other guardians of the Droy lands, ones who walked the mist, inflicted terrible atrocities upon those who fell into their clutches. And the Customs men who dragged their screaming victims down into the dungeons, left them there to rot. You heard their pathetic cries, smelled the rotting corpses but when you went to look there was nothing there except dust and' decay. Prisoners never left the dungeons. Until now. Somehow the girl and this young man had survived.

It worried Bertie Hass, something was changing here. You could sense it. And now tonight he had witnessed his own leap from the blazing bomber, seen himself parachuting down into the wood. He didn't know what it all meant, was frightened to think about it. Perhaps these two strangers could help him.

'Nobody has ever escaped from Droy Wood.' Bertie Mass's voice had dropped to a whisper, an echo of the hopelessness which had lurked deep inside him ever since he had dropped in here out of the night sky, discovered this place of eternal mists with its unknown terrors. Those terrors had dominated him; he had just refused to acknowledge them, an indoctrinated Nazi who lived in the hope of his freedom when the German army arrived. But it had been a long time coming. He had to face up to the fact, a lingering doubt which he had refused to admit even to himself, that the Nazis wouldn't be coming.

'I reckon we could make it.' Andy Dark tried to speak casually. 'You, Carol and me. If we stuck together we'd have a better chance. We've got to do something, we can't just stop here. Time's running out. even for you.'

Tell me,' there was reluctance in the German's tone, 'what. what happened

how did the war end?'

'Germany was beaten,' Andy responded, trying to refrain from gloating. 'As I told you the Fuhrer's big mistake was.

The Fuhrer does not make mistakes!' The pistol came up again.

'Perhaps he was ill-advised.' Andy held Carol close to him; Christ, we can't go into all that again. The German army floundered in the snows of a Russian winter and the Allied forces won the war in Europe. Then the Americans dropped two atom bombs on Japan. After that the result of the war was a foregone conclusion.'

Bertie Mass's features whitened, his mouth puckered, and for a moment the other two thought that he was going to burst into tears. The Luger dangled, he almost dropped it. Sadness, his dreams crashing, his ambitions shattered. 'And the Luftwaffe?'

'They don't exist any more. Germany was split into two, east and west, a diabolical wall built through Berlin to segregate them. Britain is at peace with West Germany but the eastern half is now a part of the Soviet bloc. Russia is now the main threat to world peace.'

'If what you say is true,' and you could just be lying, 'then I have no Fatherland to return to.' There was a pleading in his expression which almost had Carol Embleton feeling sorry for him. She tried to forget those awful hours spent in the blackness of a stinking, rat-infested dungeon.

'I am sure your country will welcome you back and honour the service you gave.' For once in my life I've got to toady to somebody, Andy thought. He's actually believed us, accepted the truth.

Then we must try to leave Droy Wood.,' Hass glanced back towards the window. Outside it was dark again, no sign of distant fires, no sound of whining spitfires, droning bombers. No explosions. 'We must go now before it is too late.' He tensed, was the Luftwaffe pilot of World War II again, the pistol jerking back up to cover them. 'But I warn you, if this is some contrived ruse to make me assist you in escaping from a place which I believed was German occupied territory then you will die instantly. I promise you that I shall not await the arrival of the Gestapo.'

'Fair enough,' Andy nodded, 'but we'd better move fast. We've talked too long already.'

Bertie Hass motioned with his gun for them to walk in front of him, a trio in single file crossing the large room. Since they had been in here it seemed to have aged, deteriorated; the panelling no longer glistened with fresh polish, it was stained and dirty, eroded with the efforts of woodworm. And everywhere smelled stale and musty. They moved out into the hall. Andy strained at the heavy door, thought for one awful moment that it was barred but then it swung back, protesting loudly, the hinges squeaking as though they had not moved for decades. A rush of cold air hit them, damp with the foul marsh mist that still enshrouded the wood. In any other situation he would have suggested that they awaited the dawn but there was no time. You had a strange feeling that something was about to happen, that the evil in this place was building up to a terrible climax.

'Which way?' he muttered.

The German hesitated, scanned the sky, searching for just one glimmer, one reflection from a burning city; listening for the dull thumping of distant exploding bombs. But there was nothing; nothing to give them a clue to the direction they must take.

He moved ahead of the other two, somehow found the muddy track, the one that snaked away from Droy House and on through the reed-beds. It could have led anywhere but they could not stay here.

A tramping and squelching of feet, hurrying even though they did not know where they were going. They could feel and smell the fog in the blackness of a night which gave you the impression that it might never end. You knew you were lost, you just walked on and on and tried to hope when everything seemed hopeless.

Suddenly the silence of a long-dead place was broken, a sound that seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, even the thick fog unable to muffle it. A howling that rose up like the foul-smelling marsh gases, came at them viciously, venomously, had Carol Embleton screaming. The noise reached its peak, began again, even louder, a chorus now.

You heard it, you felt it, you wanted to flee blindly even though you knew you could not escape from it. It was in front of you, behind you, closing in on you, numbing your brain, freezing your limbs.

'What is it?' Carol screamed a second time. 'Andy, whatever is it?'

'It sounds like. ' don't panic, it can't be, not here in England. And yet it had to be. When one has taken a degree in zoology, studied animals of the wild from the continents of the world, their habits and sounds, the answer is there before you — however much you try to reject it. You want to disbelieve but in the end you believe because there is no alternative. 'It sounds like.. a pack of wolves?

He grabbed her hand, ran for the faint silhouette of a tall oak with low spreading branches, a tree that had overcome the growth stunting of its neighbours. A headlong dash through deep mud, knowing that he and Carol must climb to safety before they were torn apart.

Behind them they heard the report of the Luger as Bertie Hass began shooting.