Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 17
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 17 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“So you think the man in green wants you to find the stone?” asked Stuart at lunch two hours later.
I tilted my head, mouth full of meat pie. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not the page he marked, is it? But it’s in there to find. And there’s nothing really, you know, actionable, in the bit on faeries.”
“Maybe he is that Cyril Lightfoot guy.” Iain was shoving around peas on his plate with his fork.
“But the book said he’s dead,” Stuart said. “Besides, he lived what—five hundred years ago? He’d have to be a ghost or something.”
“Oh, so we believe in fairies now but not ghosts.”
“I don’t think he’s a ghost,” I said. “I mean, I saw him eating. Ghosts don’t eat, right?”
Stuart and Iain looked at one another. Both shrugged.
“I think he’s one of the Aos Sidhe,” I added. “The people of the mounds.”
“But what does he want with you?” asked Iain skeptically.
“I…have no idea, but I want to go into Clyne Woods and find that stone. We might be the first. Ever.”
“That would be pretty cool.” Stuart mused. “We might get a write up in a scientific journal or something…”
“Yeah…I dunno,” said Iain. “As exciting as all that sounds, I’m not sure I want to go running around Clyne Woods. I’m already buried under homework—”
“I saw what you turned in for history. What did that take you, twenty minutes?”
“Hey, I put a lot of time into that! And it’s not only history, is it? It’s English and chemistry and maths and Welsh. I don’t have time, P.T.”
“So you’re telling me you spend all afternoon up in your room doing homework? Not tearing the petals off flowers? Or penning love letters then throwing them into the rubbish bin?”
Iain scowled. “It’s a no from me.” He gathered up his tray, he pushed back his chair, and stood. “In fact, I’ve got some studying to catch up on now. I’ll see you guys later.”
“Iain—”
“Later.” He stalked off and didn’t look back.
I growled. “I wish he’d get over it already. I’m sick of his moping.”
“You’ve got to cut him some slack. It’s bad enough Merry rejected him. I mean, we all kinda saw it coming, which is probably why he never asked her out. But picking Tom Firth instead? That’s gotta hurt.”
“I guess.”
“He’ll come around eventually.”
“In the meantime, you’ll come, won’t you? Help me look?”
Stuart’s expression was pained. “I don’t know, P.T. What if something happens?”
“Stu, it’s Clyne Woods, not Fangorn Forest. It’s basically a park.”
“I know. I just… here. If you can convince Iain to come, I’ll come too.”
I put my face in my hands. “You know he isn’t going to change his mind. Especially after…” I waved my hand in the direction he’d gone.
“He’ll come around. You’ll see. Until then, you can keep reading. I bet if you keep at it, you’ll find even more clues. I feel like I’m seeing a whole new side of you, P.T. And I’m impressed.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, pushing the food around on my own plate. I’d lost my appetite as well.
By the time school ended, I’d decided. I couldn’t afford to wait for Iain to get over being heartbroken. I might be dead by then. And if Stuart wouldn’t come either, I’d just have to go by myself. My plan was simple. I’d sneak out after bedtime, ride down on my bike, and comb Clyne Woods by torchlight. Considering I was searching for something that’d been lost for centuries, my plan might have been too simple, but I was sure things would work out. Somehow. After all, even if no one had found the stone till now, no one had been looking for it either.
Mam-gu was folding linens when I got home. If she remembered anything about the night before, she showed no sign of it, which suited me. It was easier to pretend whatever was happening to her wasn’t if we never discussed it. After dinner, I finished more than the usual amount of homework waiting for her to go to bed. I waited and waited. Finally, minutes before midnight, I heard her clump upstairs. My bag was packed. I had a torch, a compass, the Book of course, and an extra jumper in case it got cold. Even a bottle of water. I brought along my pocket knife, which I’d gotten for my twelfth birthday, extra batteries in case the torch died, one of mam-gu’s gardening trowels, and a pair of leather gloves. I’d arranged a pile of pillows, in case mam-gu checked in while I was gone, with little sock-feet sticking out from my blankets. I thought that was a pretty nice touch.
There was a tree beside the house, conveniently placed for climbing down. My bike leaned against the wall along the drive. The air was cool and clear, and the stars twinkled overhead. With a mix of excitement and fear, I set out for Clyne Woods.
I pedaled over to Derwen Fawr Road, turned right at Ynys Newydd, and that brought me to the entrance of a short drive wide enough for a single car. At the end was a car park, shut by a swinging metal bar connected to a post by a chain. There was a footpath beside it, and I went around, feeling a thrill at my transgression, nerves ratcheting upwards.
I’d never done anything like this before. I was, all in all, a good kid. What if someone saw me? What if there was a night patrol, to keep out addicts, perverts, and teenagers sneaking out to fool around? What if I got arrested? What if there were bears?
The footpath vanished toward the woods, the treetops a shifting black mass below the starry sky. Once I could hardly see, I dismounted and flicked on my torch, painting the way ahead in yellow. I was in a playground with a slide and a swing creaking eerily in the breeze.
I stashed my bike in some bushes where I thought no one would find it. With one last look back the way I’d come, I followed the path through the playground and into the woods. It was frightfully quiet. The cars on the main road were waves lapping on a distant shore, my own crunching footsteps deafening in comparison. The wind whispered nothings and rustled the leaves on the trees. I wished I hadn’t come alone.
“It’s practically a park…” I reminded myself, grimacing at the sound of my own voice. I’d been to Clyne Woods dozens of times before. During the day. Kids rode mountain bikes along the trails, and old people went walking. I knew my path would take me to the Clyne River. I knew that on the far side was farmland and the Keeper’s Cottage, where people could come and stay. On the south end sat Clyne Castle, which was really more of a big house. It was a peaceful place, even a beautiful one…when the sun was out. It had never felt the least bit frightening or dangerous. But at night, something of the wild wood it must have once been returned.
Never before had I thought to wonder what might be lurking among those trees. To wonder what might come out, when nobody was around. And now that I’d opened myself up to the possibility of faeries and magic stones, that brought other things too. It wasn’t just the man in green. It was ghosts. Giants. Werewolves. Things I had no name for. The problem with suddenly believing in things you’ve been told were made up was that you were forced question everything else too. And with no one to ask or turn to, I’d no way of gauging which fanciful new fears were absurd and which were justified. I began to jump at shadows.
Clyne River made a quiet shushing that seemed to come from everywhere at once, a whispered duet with the whistling wind. It emerged as a twisting black serpent, winding through the trees crowded along its banks, roots bulging, drinking greedily, branches gnarled like broken fingers. My torchlight shone back at me fragmented and rippling. The bank was strewn with mossy rocks, any one of which might be Cyril Lightfoot’s stone. As I surveyed them by torchlight, I began to comprehend the enormity of my task. The stone had gone undiscovered for centuries. What made me think I would be the one to find it? And at night, no less? I didn’t know where to begin.
Desperate for guidance, I turned to the Book, huddled over it with my torch. The article on Lightfoot and his stones told me nothing useful, and I found the map in Appendix D maddeningly vague. I realized the obvious. Willoughby had never found the stone. Of course I wouldn’t find the answer in his writing. I had to use my own eyes. I put the Book away and surveyed my surroundings. Where to look?
Other than that it was here somewhere, I had nothing to go on. Since nobody had found it, I surely wouldn’t find it along any of the well-trodden paths. But I didn’t fancy getting lost among those trees either, so I decided to follow the river. It was easy going at first, with space enough along the bank to walk almost normally. And where the water crept in, I could step over it on rocks and tree roots. Insects darted across the surface wherever my light shone. I hoped they weren’t mosquitoes. I knelt here and there, squinting at every rock big enough to seem a likely candidate, brushing away dead leaves and bits of moss, searching for a sign.
But what was I looking for? Carvings, I supposed. Writing or pictures. Anything that looked man-made or unnatural. Mostly, the rocks looked like rocks.
The way forward grew more difficult. The riverbank was muddy or worn away underneath so I couldn’t trust it not to fall away underfoot. Some of the trees leaned precariously over the water, so I either had to climb over them or find a way inland, and that way wasn’t much better, dense with scratching bushes that caught my clothes, grasping like greedy hands. Soon muck clung wetly to my shoes, and my hands were sore and sticky with sap.
I’d come out onto a narrow stretch of even ground and was bent down examining yet another mossy boulder when I heard the unmistakable sound of a snapping twig. My heart rate trebled, and my stomach sank through my feet. The sound had come from off to the left across the river. It was there I swung my torch, noting uneasily that the water here was shallow enough to cross.
The harsh light turned the world oddly flat. I strained my ears, listening. I swept my torch along the bank, but all I saw were trees that looked like stage props. All I heard was water and the gentle cooing of the wind. I began to think I’d imagined it. That of course the man in green hadn’t lured me here with a book and a cleverly-placed length of ribbon. My heartbeat began to slow. I told myself I was being foolish. Frightening myself. There was nothing dangerous in these woods but me. There were no monsters. No vampires, no ghosts, no witches—
Crunch.
Snap.
There it was again.
Only this time, it was on my side of the river.
I turned and ran. Ran as though my life depended on it. Branches flew past me in a blur. My torch became a battering ram. I vaulted over tree limbs and black water. My blessed long legs pumped like pistons, propelling me away. Away from whatever had made that sound. I burst out onto the path and ran harder still. Then I was sprinting across the playground, scrambling for my bike. I looked back only once, as I threw my leg over the seat and hauled the bike around to face the car park and home. I saw nothing. Only darkness and the shadows of trees. But I knew in that moment I wouldn’t be coming back alone. Not at night. Not ever.
