Read Avilion (Mythago Wood 7) for Free Online

skirmish, his head intact but his hair having taken the brunt of the assault.
    It was too late to reverse the damage but, as if she had intuited his next move, Julie had clearly come to the path either earlier that morning or during the evening. A second bag was hanging from the branch of a tree at the edge: another shirt, another pair of trousers, shoes that seemed to be made of soft leather, a box containing cold chicken and slices of a rich meat, and a strange hat.
    The hat was flat on his head, with a stiff peak. It was patterned in green and black. Inside was a handwritten note: Your hair needs trimming; meanwhile, advise you tuck it under this (if it fits). J.
    Jack laughed and called out, ‘Why, thank you again. I’m glad someone’s looking after me!’
    The cap was strange. He pulled it down as far as he could. The sky was becoming dark and, glancing up, he saw rain clouds. The smell of rain was strong, sweeping over the hills that lay towards the setting sun.
    And now he noticed something else: the edge of the wood was not where it had been two days before. It was further towards the ruined lodge. The ground was rough, scarred, though coarse grass and stubby thistles covered the marks. But now, when he turned to stare back into Ryhope, the human part of him could see the traces of the old house, even though just faintly: a touch of dark red and grey within the shadows.
    Why, he wondered, was Oak Lodge being returned to the open world? Who or what was guiding this passage back to the light?
    The rain started to fall, at first just a shifting shower, a freshening of the air and the pasture, then a heavier downfall below gloomy, sweeping clouds that seemed to coil above him, watching for a while, before fleeing on, away into the distance; and behind them the sky brightened and the rain eased.
    By then Jack was soaked. This was nothing new, but the fabric of the clothing he now wore was so thin that it turned cold against his skin, and the cloak came out, and he buckled it at the shoulder, and felt happier at once.
    Shadoxhurst was quieter today than on the day of the festival. He reached the water trough and looked along the road to the green, with its central stand of oaks, where the musicians had played, the hog had been roasted, and the brutal little boys had come for him. There were a few people walking dogs, a group of children standing outside the church, listening restlessly to someone talking to them. The shops were quiet. A few cars, mostly coloured silver or dull green, murmured their way along the streets. Jack watched them with fascination. He had always longed to see such a vehicle, but these were like nothing his father had painted for him. His father’s drawings had shown black, squat machines. The vehicles he watched now were more like iridescent beetles.
    He was also disturbed by how quiet it was. This was a strange thought, when he addressed it, because he had lived all his life in a quiet place, a villa with a farm, close to a deserted fortress; the sudden eruption of noise and life, of visitations or people passing by were always exciting (sometimes frightening). He had sometimes experienced the sort of vibrancy that he had witnessed during the festival, but it was a rare thing. The festival, however, had seemed to him to have a true life, to be how things should always be. Until his collapse and the attack upon him, he had felt the first suggestions of having ‘come home’. Of having made the transition between worlds.
    A few minutes of pleasure that had been disrupted by aggression.
    Nevertheless, this quiescent and subdued town brought out feelings of sadness in Jack. He longed for noise! He longed for a swirl of life.
    How long he stood by the water trough staring into the distance he didn’t know. He was aware that he was hoping to see Julie. She would recognise him and come and greet him. Perhaps she would turn out to be the guide between the worlds, just as he - for her - could be the