Creeping Jenny

Nyquist wiped his mouth and pulled his coat and scarf tighter around him and tilted his trilby further down over his brow, giving himself a shadow to hide within. It wasn’t enough, and so he closed his eyes, adding darkness. It still wasn’t enough. He couldn’t shut down all his senses. Birdsong, the constant play of the wind. The great outdoors. He felt sick. And Christ, what was that smell, some kind of animal dung? Or rotting plants, or dead flesh? He tried looking round again and felt just as faint. He needed something to focus on, one thing, and all he could choose was the hedge lining one side of the road. He stared at the twigs and the thorns and the remains of a spider’s web, and he kept them all in view for as long as possible, until his heart settled.

He turned at the sound of a voice. Two other passengers had alighted from the bus and they were looking at him now. He gave them a nod and his best attempt at a smile, but they continued to gaze at him, their expressions unreadable, and then without a word they moved to the door of a roadside cottage.

Nyquist took in his surroundings. There was a signpost that pointed in three directions: up and down the country road to Lockhampton and Bligh, and across a field towards Hoxley. And everywhere he looked, on all sides, the moors stretched away. His mind reeled. There was too much open space, too much sky. Perhaps his business would be finished quickly and he’d soon be standing here again, waiting for the bus to take him back to the train station.

Battered suitcase in hand, he set off across the field, following a pathway. The clouds were mottled gray and black, threatening rain. He kept his head down and walked on, hoping the village wouldn’t be too far, and at last he reached a stretch of woodland. He breathed a little easier here, in the shadowed interior. Fallen leaves had turned to mulch underfoot. Branches creaked, twigs rustled against each other. A lone bird chattered. It sounded like a tiny engine winding up and winding back down. The pathway merged into the undergrowth and he was soon entirely surrounded by trees. He really didn’t know where he was going.

A moment of silence took him over. No, not quite silence. He could hear a fluttering sound. He listened closely and then peered into the knotted branches, where he spied a small white object. It was a card, a plain white card, dangling at the end of a length of thread. The thread was tied at the other end around a twig. He peered into the tangle of the trees and saw that two words were written on the card, on one side only. The words were visible and then not, as the card turned and turned in the breeze.

Broken Bone…

And now that he’d seen one card others became apparent to him, hanging from other branches of this tree, and from the branches and twigs of all the trees around. Nyquist could only imagine they had been placed here by children from the village, a game or spell of some kind. Each card held a word or phrase of its own: Scatter Seed, Witch’s Knot, Waving Hands, Aerial, Silver Shiver, Pretty Pattern, Long to Depart, Spider’s Home. Hundreds of the cards were visible. Wormwood, Motionless, Shape of Wings…

He moved on at random, hoping to locate the path once more, but had taken only a few steps when he heard another sound, a human sound. A single cry of anguish. He spun round, in time to see something moving, low down among the branches. Nyquist approached and a figure darted aside in a snap and clatter of twigs.

There was no answer, only the sound of the wood settling back into a slow trembling state. And then the figure announced, “I’m alone here.”

A moment passed and then the voice announced, “We can’t both be alone, otherwise we wouldn’t be alone.”

It was enough of an answer, for now the figure stood upright and stepped forward. It was a woman of singular aspect, entirely at home in the evening shade. She had wild and ragged hair and her hands were tipped with fingernails which were long, sharp, and dirty with shreds of bark. It was impossible to tell how old she was. The woods stirred, stirred again, and there she was, standing in front of him, using the branches around her as a set of levers by which she propelled herself forward. Nyquist was fascinated. She might easily be mistaken for a creature of myth, until she came close enough to show her eyes, which were a quite startling blue, and entirely human.

She was dressed in black rags and her hair was woven with twigs and stems and leaves and husks and burrs, either caught there in her travels or threaded on purpose.

The woman shuffled forward, causing the branches to groan and rasp. “You’re my first guest this evening. But that’s usually the case, on this particular day. I used to be a midwife, you know?”

“It is a fact.” Sylvia danced from foot to foot. “But then I lost one brother to sickness, and another to the war. Only my sister remains to me.”

It took him a moment to understand her warning – one of the name tags had snagged on his scarf and was being pulled away from the branch, the thread almost breaking. He stepped forward, relieving the pressure. Sylvia came to him to unhook the card from his clothing.

She carried a small bag slung across her shoulder. She dipped into this and pulled out another card and a wax crayon. She chose a nearby branch seemingly at random, thought for a moment and then prepared to write on the card. “Forked Tongue? No, Oberon’s Favorite? No. Let me think… The One who Talks With the Sky? Argh, no. Too much, far too much, who do you think you are, Wordsworth?! No. Come on, Sylvia. Think, woman!”

“No, a name for the branch, of course, the branch! Every branch has a different name.”

“Because every branch is different, why else? A unique object in the universe.” Her arms spread out wide. “The tree has a name, a central name, and the trunk has a name, each visible root has a name. And each and every branch will have a name, once I’ve finished. And I’ve already made a start on the twigs, one by one. Hopefully I’ll be done by springtime, and then I’ll start on the leaves and the buds, one by one by one, naming each in turn. Oh, I am so looking forward to the spring!”

Nyquist started to ask for the way to the village, but Sylvia held up a hand, urging him to silence.

“Ah, I have it.” Now she wrote, pressing hard with the crayon to darken the mark as much as possible. “There it is. Perfect. What do you think?” She held the card out for him to look at: Tangled Hair.

Sylvia frowned. “Well, I’ve made the card out now, so I’ll stick with it.” She tied the thread around the branch, allowing the card to dangle down. It spun and spun and then settled. “Actually, now it’s in place, I like it. Tangled Hair. Yes, I am pleased with that one.”

“Now then.” She turned to Nyquist. “Where are you heading? Perhaps I can help.”

Sylvia danced again. “Come, I’ll show you. Step lightly. And don’t disturb my cards!”

He followed her through a gap between the trees and soon a clear path could be made out. He thanked Sylvia and was about to tell her his name when she stopped him with a finger to his lips

“I have already given you a name. A new name. A proper name. Here, let me write it down for you.” She wrote with her crayon on a fresh card and presented it to him, face-down. “Don’t look at it now. Later, later, give it one hour to act upon itself, and upon your person. And then gaze at it for fully ten minutes. Go on, hide it away, put it in your pocket. Here, let me.” She slipped the card into an inside pocket of his overcoat.

Nyquist went on his way. The branches waved their tags at him: Perfect Perch, Twig For Sale, Lady Anna’s Fan, Not Quite an Oak, Billy Splinters, Birds Come Hither. Nyquist recited each name to himself, whispering: the poem of the woods.

Soon he came to a stile in a fence, with open land beyond. Night was slowly falling. He climbed over. A field sloped down into a valley and for a good few moments he stood where he was, staring into the dim air. A carrier pigeon was sitting on a fence post nearby, a tiny metal tube attached to its leg.

The gun sounded another two times. Far off, muffled. In the city the noise would make him duck for cover, but here it was probably hunters taking advantage of the last of the light, some poor hare or rabbit or grouse their target. Country life. Blood and guts and tooth and claw. Nyquist swore to himself. This wasn’t his kind of place, not at all. He was a child of the city, of narrow streets and neon signs and people who came alive at night, or in the fierce heat of day, stalkers, hawkers, crooks and hookers, crazy-eyed teenagers scrawling their names on the walls, the fierce hustle and bustle of life pressed up close. And specimens like himself – investigators, seekers after clues, grubbing around in the dark in hope of a sparkle. Still, there was no choice in the matter. He had to see this through.

The first drops of rain fell as he picked up his case and set off down the slope.